


Idle Hands

by chief_johnson



Series: Devilish Series [2]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Night Terrors, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-03-02 21:50:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 115,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18819700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chief_johnson/pseuds/chief_johnson
Summary: Nearly a year and a half later, Olivia is still reeling from the trauma of her encounter with the Manhattan Mangler. When Amanda invites her on a road trip to the mountains, neither is prepared for the darkness they must face there. But one thing is certain: they will face it together. Sequel to my fic "The Devil You Know." Rolivia romance.





	1. Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, gentle readers! Bet you thought I forgot about you after all this time? NEVAH! I've just been over here, plunking away at this fic for the past 3 (or 4?) months. Now it's completed, and I'm ready to share. So, here's the essentials:  
> 1\. This is a sequel to _The Devil You Know_ ([link](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17249327/chapters/40564358)), my previous SVU fic. If you haven't read it, I highly recommend doing so before reading this story, because Devil is heavily referenced throughout. It's not a necessity, but it will help.  
> 2\. While I had strong reservations about writing a romantic relationship between Olivia & Amanda in Devil due to the subject matter, I threw caution to the wind for this fic. Because I'm Rolivia trash. That said, this one deals mainly with Liv's recovery, so be prepared for some very dark stuff. (Seriously, guys, she's not in a good way.)  
> 3\. The Dark Stuff: **TRIGGER WARNING!** PTSD, references to/descriptions of rape, graphic violence **TRIGGER WARNING!** I will continue to add warnings to the chapters, as they apply.  
> 4\. The Light Stuff: I like to have a balance, so expect fluff and humor at times. There's even some smut (way, way down the road). But never fear, I only included what I felt furthered the plot, not just for shits & giggles.  
> 5\. Please read & review. Your feedback for Devil was a major factor in my decision to even write this fic. Keep it coming, folks! Also, I got smacked with a wicked case of writer's block during the completion of this story, and there were a few times I wasn't even sure I could finish it; I apologize in advance if the quality is a bit dodgy here and there. OH ALSO! Since this takes place in the Devil 'verse, that means some (not all) things from season 20 are excluded—namely Billie. I feel bad about it, but she just didn't fit, what with the Al Pollack (blaaarghhh) of it all. And a couple things might fly in the face of what the show told us, but shhh, I kind of like my way better.  
> 6\. **DISCLAIMER** : I own nothing but a handful of original characters.  
> 7\. Huge HUGE thank you to Amilyn for being my beta on this fic. You rock, lady.  
> OK, GO READ!

[ ](https://imgur.com/fr0KBUJ)

 

* * *

 

“But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews;  
Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse;  
Sharp Boreas blows, and nature feels decay,  
Time conquers all, and we must time obey.”

\- Alexander Pope

**. . . ** 

From the Coxsackie  _ News_, May 17, 2019:

 

 

> ** GEORGIA MAN GUILTY IN SPREE KILLINGS **
> 
> By Jeff Warren
> 
> COXSACKIE--A Georgia man who worked as a semitrailer truck driver confessed in open court to killing five people along the East Coast, in a spree that ended in Coxsackie, New York, last week. He is also being charged in four separate murder sprees, dating as far back as 1988.
> 
> Thaddeus Orion, 54, was arrested Wednesday at a truck stop diner when another patron recognized him from a police sketch. He later admitted to authorities that he had killed three women and two men, including an unidentified 17-year-old hitchhiker, along his driving route. After further questioning, police determined he was responsible for a series of murders that have baffled investigators across the US for decades.
> 
> According to Sheriff Arnold Stander of Greene County, Orion detailed choosing his victims at random, mutilating their bodies, and often transporting them in his semi to be dumped across state lines. He gave no reason for his crimes. 
> 
> “He’s not remorseful,” Stander stated in a press conference early this morning. “These were some of the most gruesome deaths I’ve ever encountered in my career. He described them like he was reading a phone book.”
> 
> The suspect was arraigned yesterday in Greene County on multiple counts of aggravated murder. He will not be eligible for parole. 
> 
> “The world just a got a little bit safer, with him locked up,” said a woman who declined to give her name, upon hearing the verdict outside of the courthouse. “Hope they throw away the key.”

 

* * *

 **CHAPTER 1:** Invitation

_February, 2020_

**. . .**

"You so want to tap that. Admit it, you've been practicing your signature on the back of your little NYPD Trapper Keeper. 'Amanda Benson' in big swirly letters. Surrounded by cute little heart doodles."

Missing the holes entirely, Amanda's fingers collided with something solid and hot pink. Begrudgingly, she glanced down at the bowling ball, rolling it around until she could slip her thumb, middle and ring fingers into the designated slots.

"First of all, Trapper Keeper? I am an officer of the law, not a middle schooler in the 1980s," she said, hefting the ball from its rack. She used it to gesture at the woman seated in front of the scoring console. "Second of all, what makes you think  _I_  would take  _her_  last name? Maybe it would be Olivia Rollins."

Amanda turned towards her lane, eyeing the flock of arrows that pointed straight down the middle to the foremost pin. She balanced the ball at chest level and honed in on the small red dart embedded in the shiny yellow flooring ahead. "And third—oh yeah, I'm not gay," she said, as if it were an afterthought.

"Not if you can't find the holes better than that, you aren't," cracked Daphne, the smirk evident in her voice. "We're going to have to work on your dexterity before you level up to lesbian status."

Despite frantic pop music blaring from an overhead sound system and the thunderous rumble-crash that alternated between the active alleys on either side, a teenage boy the next lane over had obviously heard their exchange. He skidded to a stop at least three feet from the foul line and tossed a gutter ball that made his friends jeer and jostle him away like a bad Vaudeville act.

"You're traumatizing the children," Amanda called over her shoulder, before bowling a crisp, clean strike. She pumped her first once in celebration, then spun on her heel and sauntered back to the table.  _Go ahead and crack wise about my aim now, Daph_ , she thought, plunking down in the seat beside her friend.

Daphne Tyler, deputy chief clerk of NYC Family Court, dog mom to Hamilton the goldendoodle, and the most shameless flirt in Manhattan, had spent the early days of their friendship attempting to woo Amanda into a lesbian love affair. Though largely unsuccessful, she had secured one actual date in exchange for a peek at the file that helped lead Amanda to the Manhattan Mangler, a serial killer/rapist who tried to make Benson his final victim. The date turned out to be one of the best Amanda had been on in years, but she couldn't string the pretty brunette along with promises of a relationship that would never be.

Nearly a year and a half later, they remained the dearest of friends, despite the failed romance—a night they fondly referred to as their "little fling"—and Daphne no longer circled her like a prowling panther whenever they were together. She did, however, maintain a steadfast belief that Rollins had the hots for one Lieutenant Olivia Benson, a position she argued on an increasingly regular basis.

"That's how it starts," Daphne said during their last outing, when Amanda glanced up in the middle of a work-related tale, in which her boss featured prominently (and valiantly), to find a Cheshire cat grin on the other woman's face. "Infatuation with a gorgeous middle-aged woman in a position of power. It's like a gateway drug, Mandy Lou. One minute you're on your merry hetero way, the next you're strung out on  _The L Word_  and considering joining a softball league."

"You know this from experience?" Amanda had asked, snickering. She didn't mention that she'd watched the occasional  _L Word_  episode during downtime at the academy, or that her fast-pitch had brought more than a few recruiters calling at her college dorm. Best to keep her prowess with a softball and a remote control out of the conversation.

"Not exactly. I'm more of a roller derby kinda girl. But the scantily clad Xena poster on the wall of my childhood bedroom was a pretty big clue." Daphne had waggled ten slender fingers, several of them adorned with delicate bands and precious stones. "Doesn't matter the path you take. In the end, we all wind up with pitifully short nails and an affinity for hummus."

For their bowling alley excursion, the rings had been removed and were currently residing in Daphne's pants pocket. They created a noticeable bulge in the lush hunter green fabric, interrupting the smooth flow of her well-tailored slacks. Paired with a floral print button-down and a cashmere sweater the color of fresh cream, the outfit was more suited for dinner at the country club than girls' night out at the lanes ("So gay," the court clerk had said when Amanda suggested the venue). But that was Daphne for you—every occasion was a fashion op, and it was always better to be overdressed than under. Even whilst sporting a hideous pair of rented shoes.

Amanda had to admit, her petite friend did look lovely, her long dark hair caught up in a wispy bun at the nape of her neck. She patted Daphne on the back, catching a whiff of Chanel No. 5 on the breeze her hand generated, as the smaller woman groaned over the scoreboard.

"Is there any sport you're not good at?" Daphne asked, pouting a plump bottom lip. Her peach gloss still looked shimmery wet, though she hadn't touched it up since bowling her first frame.

"Hmm." Amanda pretended to think it over quite extensively. "Water polo? That one where Scottish guys throw trees?"

"Caber tossing."

"Because that's something everybody knows," Amanda said, eyebrows raised in amusement.

"Well, I attended only the finest schools in my youth." Daphne feigned an air of superiority, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin at a haughty angle. Then she shrugged and returned to a casual but far from slouchy posture. "Also, my grandfather on my mom's side was Scottish. He dragged me to all the local Highland Games growing up. Wanted me to marry a big burly Scotsman."

Amanda gave a snort of laughter. Picturing Daphne—a lascivious construction worker trapped in an adorable pixie body—with any man, let alone a hulking lumberjack type, was nothing short of absurd. "How's that working out for ya?"

"Give me a bonnie wee lass over those ginger-bearded Neanderthals any day." The statement barely had time to settle before Daphne snapped her fingers as if she were having a eureka moment. "Oh! Did I tell you I met someone?"

"Um, no," Amanda said, surprised it hadn't come up sooner. The clerk was usually ready to proclaim such news from the rooftops. And Amanda was slightly embarrassed to admit that she hung on every word like a thirteen-year-old at a slumber party. When your own love life was virtually nonexistent, you got your thrills wherever you could. "Spill."

"Oh my God. Well, let me just preface by saying she's gorgeous."

"Duh."

"No, I mean, like,  _gorgeous_. She's an actress."

"Another one?" Amanda griped like she'd been served an unappealing dish at the dinner table—bland veggies three nights in a row, or liverwurst. "That last one was a royal pain in the ass. A hit series when you were ten years old does not give you license to treat the rest of the world like servants."

"You're still just mad because she kept calling you officer," Daphne said, giving Amanda's knee a sympathetic pat.

"Eight times. I told her I'm a detective eight friggin' times, and she still had the nerve to look me in the eye and say, 'Is that what they mean by"—pausing to scan Daphne up and down, Amanda wrinkled her nose and affected a snooty tone—"plain clothes officer?' Bitch, those were my real clothes!"

Daphne pressed her lips together, stifling the laughter that instead manifested in her bouncing shoulders. "She really was a piece of work, I'll give you that. Too bad she was so damn hot . . ." Her voice and gaze trailed off as she fondled her shirt collar, remembering. Then: "Anyway, this one's super sweet, I promise. You might've heard of her—Meredith Ashton? She's mostly done stage work."

When Amanda shook her head, the clerk made a dismissive gesture and went right on gushing. Two spots of color, roughly the size and shade of cherries, bloomed on her cheeks, cerulean eyes glinting despite the arena's outer space lighting. "Well, she comes from acting royalty and she's filthy rich. Plus, she's got this hair . . ."

"As so many of us do," Amanda prompted.

"It's not regular hair, though. It's like . . . it's like if a goddess gave birth to a unicorn, and the unicorn was covered in baby chinchilla fur. She's a chinchilla unicorn goddess."

Amanda stared with a blank expression for a full five seconds, then tossed her head back and laughed until her sides ached.

"I'm serious! You'll see!" Daphne swatted playfully at Amanda's arm. "You're gonna meet her in a week or so."

"I am?" Amanda asked between residual snickers, swiping a knuckle under both eyes to stanch her tears.

"Yeah, she invited me to her private ski lodge in the Catskills. Technically it belongs to her parents, but she uses it whenever." Daphne nodded sagely at the bug-eyed look her proclamation received. "I know. Told you they were rich. But I'm super nervous. I really like this woman, Amanda. I don't want to screw it up by coming on too strong. So, you're going to come along and be my buffer—"

"Wait." Amanda sat forward, suddenly all ears. "I am?"

"Yes. And you're going to invite your mad hot lady crush— I mean, your boss with whom you share a platonic admiration and nothing more because you're both sooo straight."

"I am?"

"Stop saying that. Meredith told me I could invite some friends, and I think it's way past time for me to meet this illustrious Lieutenant Benson I've heard so much about. So. Very. Much." Daphne punctuated the staccato words with a poke to Amanda's ribs after each. "You keep talking about how she never takes any time for herself, even after that nasty business with the Manhattan Mangler. Well, little missy, as far as I can tell, neither have you. It'll do you both some good to get away."

It was true; Amanda had expressed concern about her boss's tendency to overwork herself. On the rare occasions Benson let her guard down—usually late at night, after a long day spent rubbing elbows with the scum of the earth—she seemed weary, head bent low over her desk, hands folded just a bit too tightly. She professed to be fine, of course, and she did appear much happier since the adoption of her daughter, Matilda Cole, had been finalized. But there was a darkness behind her eyes that hadn't faded away, even after the Mangler case drew to a close. It was a darkness Amanda recognized from seeing it reflected back at her in the mirror, deep within her own eyes—once a pale cornflower blue, now a touch more slate.

Much like the lieutenant, she had thrown herself back into work after being cleared for the shooting death of Calvin Arliss. It would have been ludicrous to do otherwise; she wasn't the one he drugged, assaulted, and whose throat he tried to slit. She'd never almost been his mother. In fact, he was nothing—less than nothing—to her, a stain on humanity and on the city she'd come to call home. If anything, she should feel vindicated for ending his life. But somehow, lying alone in bed at night, she felt a niggling sense of guilt, as if she had taken something important away from Benson. Probably misplaced grief over killing the innocent Labott girl, which she also hadn't dealt with since that fateful standoff outside the residence of religious fanatic, William Labott. Poor skittish Esther who died twenty pounds underweight, secondhand clothes pooling around her skeletal frame, blood pooling under her ruined head . . .

Amanda surprised both herself and Daphne by giving a sharp, decisive nod. "You're right—"

"I am?"

"—I could use a vacation, and I've wanted to visit the Catskills ever since I moved to New York. No time like the present. Might as well live while I'm . . . relatively young.  _Carpe diem_ , right?"

Daphne narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing Amanda through a thicket of exceptionally long lashes. It tickled just to look at them. "Are you okay? You kind of turned into a walking platitude right then. Next you'll be telling me to 'Keep Calm and Bowl On' or something."

Ignoring her friend's keen observation, Amanda motioned to the scoreboard. She had come to play, not hash out her psychological trauma while Bowie crooned "Starman" through a temperamental stereo speaker in the background. "You better, or the computer's gonna think we ditched the game. I'll talk to Liv about it on Monday. She'll probably say no, but I can be pretty persuasive."

After a long pause and a quirked eyebrow, Daphne reluctantly took the hint. But she could never resist the chance to dirty up an ordinary comment. "And don't I know it," she said, sliding a suggestive wink in Amanda's direction as she headed for the ball return. "You forget I've been on the receiving end of those feminine Southern wiles. Your Liv's not gonna know what hit her."

"She's not  _my_ —" Amanda started to protest, then huffed and let her head drop backwards dramatically. Utter defeat. Her daughter had picked up the habit, head tossed back in despair, flyaway strands of blonde hair dangling as she was carried to the bathtub like it was the guillotine. Cute at five years old, but Amanda got the feeling it would come back to bite her on the ass in another decade or so. "Whatever, Tyler, just roll your gutter so I can get on with beating the pants off you."

She hadn't really heard it until after she said it. And of course:

"If you wanted to get my pants off, Amanda darling, all you had to do was ask," Daphne sang out, letting the ball fly.

 

* * *

 

Her palms were actually sweating. She couldn't for the life of her figure out why she felt so nervous, but she'd been pacing back and forth outside Olivia's door for the past few minutes, like a schoolgirl sent to the principal's office. After an initial false start from her desk, she had marched towards the lieutenant's domain with a purposeful stride, only to veer off in a random direction at the last moment. Not once but three times. Some of the unis were giving her funny looks. There was only so much imaginary paperwork a girl could search for.

Luckily, Fin and Carisi were out—if being summoned to a trendy nightclub to investigate a sexual assault in the women's bathroom could be called lucky—meaning she had Olivia all to herself. Why that seemed preferable, she didn't know. She mentally cursed Daphne Tyler for making her re-examine even the most fleeting thoughts about her boss. It was Liv, for Chrissakes. She snorted when you made her laugh too hard, and she'd had to ask Amanda how to enlarge the font on her phone because anything less than 45pt made her squint. Hell, one night they had even gotten tipsy together on a bottle of red wine and discussed cute guys during a sleepover, like they were twelve years old.

Smiling faintly to herself at the memory, she failed to notice the lieutenant's office door swing open. It wasn't until the husky voice asked, "Rollins, do you want something?" that she snapped back to reality and found Olivia standing expectantly in the doorway, gazing over the top of her glasses.

Apparently the unis weren't the only ones who had noted Amanda's shifty behavior.

"Uh, yeah, can I talk to you for a sec?" she asked, a bit too quick, too squeaky. She wiped her moist palms on the legs of her trousers. If she didn't pull it together, she'd soon be peeing in a cup to assure Benson she wasn't some kind of basehead.

"Sure . . ." Olivia sounded doubtful of her own answer, but stepped aside and ushered Amanda into the office.

For the first time in her nearly decade-long tenure with SVU, Amanda found herself really taking in the space that had once been occupied by Captain Donald Cragen. Under his leadership, it had merely been a formality, all mahogany and square corners, a room in which you sat stiffly and asked permission. Or forgiveness. Now it possessed a distinctly feminine vibe, the colors more soothing—even the wood had a cherry finish—and the furniture more comfortable. A snow globe, a crystal paperweight, photos of adorable children behind clear sheets of glass—beautiful and delicate objects that drew the eye but could easily be destroyed by an uncaring hand.

A dish of cinnamon potpourri on the coffee table lent the air a spicy kick, but a subtler, bittersweet smell lingered underneath. Dark chocolate with a tart burst of cranberry at its center. It occurred to Amanda that the scent must belong to Olivia, but she quickly dispelled the idea and distanced herself from the other woman, taking a seat on the coffee table. Too low, she realized too late. Olivia hadn't moved from behind the door after closing it, and Amanda was now eye-level with her very ample bust. Beneath an unbuttoned wine-colored blazer, Olivia wore one of those stretchy tops she favored, a chalky pink scoop neck that revealed just a whisper of cleavage. At a brief glance, the shirt appeared flesh-toned and created the illusion of bare skin. Amanda hastily averted her eyes.

_Fucking Daphne._

Rising with as much nonchalance as possible, she reassigned herself to one of the chairs in front of Olivia's desk. The lieutenant watched the entire performance unfold, expression unreadable as her eyes tracked each movement. After a lengthy silence, she trailed towards the desk and, rather than take the customary seat behind it, perched on the farthest corner, arms crossed. Still high above her guest.

"You gonna tell me what's going on with you, or should we take this to the interrogation room?" she asked in a somewhat peevish tone. Earlier in the day, a man on trial for raping his five-year-old niece had walked on a technicality, then Olivia spent the better part of the afternoon fielding calls from angry family members and children's rights groups. Evening had been devoted to a mountain of paperwork that appeared to be whittled down to a small hill beside her laptop, though not entirely flattened. Now it was past eight o'clock and her children would soon be tucked in by someone else. No wonder she was surly.

Still, Amanda feared it went deeper than that. She hadn't mentioned to Daphne that—in spite of her admiration for Olivia, which bordered on hero worship—her boss seemed perpetually out of sorts with her lately. She could almost pinpoint the exact moment it had begun, too. Six months earlier, during a sting operation at a brothel believed to be trafficking underage girls, she'd gone undercover as a madam looking for fresh stock. Seconds after a transaction occurred, she gave the signal over the wire and identified herself as a police officer. In response, the pimp whipped out a MAC-10 and mowed down several of his own girls while attempting to pepper her with bullets. Fortunately, a fully stocked wet bar provided sufficient coverage. But a similarly dressed blonde near the exit hadn't been so lucky. When backup burst through the doors, taking the pimp out in a deafening hail of gunfire, Olivia had pushed past the SWAT team in their black beetle helmets before the smoke even cleared. The dead prostitute lay facedown at her feet, and Olivia had dropped to one knee beside the body, a hand outstretched towards the pale yellow hair that fanned out like sunbeams in a blood red sky. For one moment, she had looked so entirely devastated, it made Amanda's heart ache.

Then: "Liv, I'm here." She could barely hear her own voice for the ringing in her ears, but she got up from behind the bar and picked her way through the rubble and the wounded until she was standing in front of the lieutenant. "He missed," she added when Olivia gazed up, several emotions struggling for dominance on her face at once, the chief of which was confusion. Relief soon followed, until something else Amanda couldn't quite identify took its place. All she knew was that one minute Olivia was kneeling, and the next, she pulled Amanda into a hug so rough it felt more like a reprimand. The way a mother hugged a child who had just darted into traffic or escaped some other extreme peril unscathed. Before Amanda had time to reciprocate, Olivia pushed her back at arm's-length and walked away without a word. She'd swiped discreetly at her cheeks as she spent the next several minutes ushering a clutch of frightened young women from the premises.

Amanda thought—or rather, hoped—that the experience would bring them closer together, as some of their more dangerous cases had in the past. If nothing else, she expected an acknowledgement for her role in the sting. But other than a literal slap on the back from Fin, and a homemade card from Carisi that read  _Glad you didn't get shot by a pimp_ , her close call garnered no other attention—at least not from the person she'd wanted it to. Olivia never mentioned it again and their friendship had been strained, their interactions stiff and awkward, ever since. Amanda still received invites to Benson family functions, where she was welcomed with hugs and squeals of delight from the children ("Annamandy!" cried little Matilda, who at not quite two years old hadn't mastered the fine art of Auntie Amanda yet), but she couldn't remember the last time she and Olivia had a true heart-to-heart conversation. Or even just a laugh over a bottle of Merlot.

In fact, this office visit was the first time they'd been alone together in weeks. And Amanda already regretted it. What made her think Olivia would agree to go anywhere with her? The lieutenant clearly regarded her as nothing more than a troublemaking subordinate. "You know what," she said, giving her thighs a brisk slap and pushing up from the chair, "This was a bad idea. Forget I was here."

She headed for the door so rapidly, Olivia had to trot to get there first. Height and authority on full display, she blocked the exit and pointed at the seat Amanda had vacated. "Sit down."

Though censored, her tone implied a "your ass" somewhere in that sentence. Grudgingly, Amanda scuffed back towards the chair, planted herself there, and stuffed her hands as far into her pockets as they would go in that position. For one rebellious moment, she had the urge to kick back and prop her feet on the desk like a smartass teenager. At least when she got pissed, her hands didn't sweat.

"You practically wore a hole in the floor pacing back and forth in front of my office, so I know you've got something on your mind," Olivia said, resuming her own spot on the edge of the desk. She beckoned with her palm up, as if she'd been shortchanged from a handsome sum of bills. "Out with it."

Amanda looked up sharply, ready to engage in what her Georgia relatives would call "sass mouthin'." But as she gazed up at the woman she'd come to consider a close friend, maybe one of the best she ever had—until whatever happened six months ago, that is—her heart just wasn't in it. "Did I do something wrong?" she asked suddenly, wishing she could take it back, even as it came. She sounded like such a child.

"I'm not sure I understand." Olivia frowned, inclining her head towards Amanda, though her body remained turned slightly away. She had resumed a rich coffee-brown hair color, dark waves falling several inches past her shoulders. It was the longest she'd worn it in years, and it gave her a youthful and feminine appearance. As if aware of its allure, she swept the entire mane aside to drape over one shoulder, and removed her glasses. She'd only succeeded in looking more attractive. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

"I . . . I don't know." Amanda twitched her shoulders in a helpless shrug. "I mean, I guess I screwed up somewhere along the line? Things were great, I thought I'd finally earned your trust after all this time. Was I crazy to think we—" She caught herself about to say something else she'd regret, and changed paths just as abruptly as she had outside her boss's door: "It's not like I knew the guy would pull a MAC. But it's like you blame me for getting shot at, and I can't for the life of me figure out—"

"Whoa, whoa." Olivia waved her hands as if she were flagging down a runaway horse. But when she got the silence she wanted, she didn't seem to know what to do with it. Several seconds ticked by on the clock before she finally shook her head, dropping into the chair beside Amanda's, elbows resting on her knees, and said, "It's not about the sting."

The words were spoken softly, directed at the lieutenant's shoes, that curtain of long, thick hair masking her downturned face. Amanda stared at the back of her lowered head for a moment, unsure if there was more. Wanting there to be. Not sure why she wanted it so badly.

"You did a good job with that. I should have told you that back then, but . . ."

_But . . . ?_

"I just should've told you. I'm sorry I didn't." This time, Olivia looked up, offering an apologetic smile. "You're a gifted detective, Amanda. And I do trust you. As much as anyone. I'm lucky to have— I'm lucky you're on my team."

It was exactly what Amanda had hoped to hear. And yet. "Was it something else I did? Or said?" She leaned forward, mirroring Olivia's posture and putting them eye to eye. "Because lately I get the feeling you don't like having me around. I know the Georgia accent wears thin after a while, but I really thought I was starting to get the New York inflection down."

She pronounced it as "New Yawk," keeping a straight face for all of three seconds. When Olivia turned to her with a smirk, eyebrow hiked in amusement, she couldn't hold back a grin. That arch look was a step in the right direction.

"I don't know what the sound that just came out of your mouth was, but please, never do it again," Olivia said in a deadpan voice, briefly partaking in the humor before sobering to answer the question. "And you didn't do or say anything wrong. It's not even about that. Not wanting you around."

Normally, Amanda was the fidget of the two, prone to restless fingers, bouncy knees, and the inability to sit for long periods of time. But as Olivia paused to consider her next words, she began to fiddle with anything in reach: her glasses, the tiny buttons on one blazer cuff, a loose string on the other, and finally, the snow globe on her desk. She picked it up and studied the little golden Buddha inside, then rotated him with a flourish of the wrist that unleashed a flurry of shimmering gold stars within the crystal orb. It was a gift from The Met, if Amanda remembered her Benson historical facts correctly. Purchased for her by Alexandra Cabot, who had also sprung for the birthday tickets to  _La Bohème_. (There was no logical reason Amanda could think of for the twinge of jealousy she suddenly felt, watching Olivia watch the pretty ornament.)

"Then what is it?" she goaded, unable to hold her tongue any longer. She'd already waited too long for this conversation as it was; she wouldn't let the evanescent former-ADA ruin it for her.

"It's . . . complicated. I'm—" Olivia gestured vaguely at herself, let out a frustrated huff, and set the snow globe back on the desk with a heavy  _thunk_. "I'm just too fucking complicated, Rollins."

"Okay," Amanda drawled, studying the back of Olivia's head, which she'd lowered again. The urge to place a hand there, to stroke the lush brown hair behind an ear and reveal the brown-penny eyes flecked in gold—so like the Buddha's glittery crystalline world—rose up in Amanda. She forced it away. "I don't really know what that means, at least as it applies to us. Being friends."

Another smirk appeared on Olivia's lips, her face just visible in profile, but this one managed to look sad somehow. "Yeah, me neither. I think I'm just going through something. Menopause, maybe?" She laughed a bit harshly. "I'm feeling kind of overwhelmed by . . ." A broad gesture, encompassing everything and nothing. "This."

"This. You mean work?"

Olivia slid a glance sideways, catching Amanda's eye as she shook her head, lips parted. For a split second, she looked poised on the edge of something, like a novice swimmer about to dive into the deep end, but then she said, "Yes. Work, my kids, life. It's a lot sometimes. Especially when we lose people."

"People?"

"Cases. Like the one today. Seeing that poor little girl get sent back home to be abused some more by her asshole uncle, and we can't do a damn thing to stop it."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Amanda said, though not entirely sure she did. She understood the frustration, felt it every time they failed to help a child—especially one so close in age to her own daughter—but it was a well-known hazard of the job. If anyone knew that, it was Lieutenant Benson, who had toughed it out in SVU nearly twenty years longer than most. Why the past six months should be any different, Amanda couldn't say. And she wasn't going to press. Olivia looked tired enough as it was, she didn't need Amanda whining around about not getting enough attention.

Time to put on your big girl panties, Rollins.

"Sounds to me like you need a vacation," Amanda said, testing the waters a bit.

Olivia snorted, finally loosening up enough to lean back in her chair. She stretched out her long legs, crossing them at the ankle, and laced her fingers together behind her head. Classic power pose and classic Benson. "Wouldn't that be something?" she sighed up at the ceiling, eyes closed as if envisioning a world where such things were possible.

Hmm. It wasn't much to go on, but at least she hadn't flat-out turned down the idea. Amanda cleared her throat and sat up straight, tugging at the flaps of her gray wool blazer. It suddenly felt very hot and very constrictive. "Well, that's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I mean, besides"— _your lapse into aloofness and my deep and abiding insecurities_ —"the other stuff."

"Oh?" Olivia opened one eye, curious.

"Yeah, remember my friend Daphne who I told you about?"

"The one who let you look at Amelia's sealed record without a court order, right?"

Amanda noted the lack of disapproval in her boss's tone and took it as another good sign. "That's her."

"I really should send her a thank you card. Maybe a bouquet. What's her favorite flower?"

A thoughtful gesture, to be sure, but how to tell Olivia that the court clerk had a filthy little mind and would probably squeeze a sex joke out of such a gift? Something about a preference for deflowering, more than likely. "I dunno. But you can ask her yourself, if you want. She invited us on a trip to the Catskills. The woman she's dating has a private ski lodge up there, and they're heading up next Friday. Coming home Monday. I figured since you never take any time off, you'd have the vacation days for it. If you want."

She had Olivia's full attention and both eyes focused on her now. A strange expression passed over the pretty countenance—a dark, almost imperceptible smile, a brewing in the warm brown irises—but it disappeared before Amanda could read it.

"Next Friday? Isn't that Valentine's Day?" Olivia asked, reaching up to toy with the small feather pendant on a slender gold chain around her neck. A dainty pearl, no larger than an apple seed, dangled from the quilled end. That had also been a gift—the necklace. On the day Matilda's adoption was to be finalized, a little brown package arrived for Benson at the precinct; enclosed were the necklace and a note written in exquisite penmanship:

_Rise._

_Love, Rafa_

Tears in her eyes, Olivia had donned the lovely piece of jewelry and worn it every day since. She batted lightly at the pearl with her fingertip as she waited for Amanda's answer.

"Oh, right. I didn't even think of that," Amanda lied, making a show of leaning in to check the large desk calendar where the lieutenant scribbled down work-related reminders. "You've probably got plans. It's no big deal, I found out kind of last minute myself, so . . . ." Nothing else to add—at least not that she was willing to admit out loud—she let the sentence fade off there.

"I don't have plans, actually." Olivia stroked a finger over the minuscule grooves that gave the pendant its feathery appearance. For a moment, she looked like she might be considering the getaway. But she let the feather charm drop against her chest, splaying a hand over it as if she were reciting a pledge, and said, "I'm afraid I can't go, though. I've never been away from the kids that long. Noah'd probably pack my bags for me, but Tilly's still such a mama's girl. And I'd hate to ask Lucy to give up her Valentine's Day."

Amanda had expected as much, but it didn't lessen the disappointment of being turned down any. And now she got to be the third wheel while Daphne and her girlfriend canoodled all weekend. Yeehaw.

"That's what I figured. Luckily, Charlotte was free, otherwise I'd be stuck home with the girls, the Hallmark romcom marathon, and a half-eaten box of chocolates." Amanda made a face, though she'd honestly prefer moping at home with Jesse and Frannie than moping around in the mountains with a cute couple she wasn't a part of. "That is, if you can spare me?" she added, realizing too late that her eagerness to stay could be misconstrued as the desire to leave.

And sure enough:

"Yes, of course. Go." Olivia gave a wave of her hand, as if she were already sending Amanda on her way. "Have fun. You deserve it. Although, I have to admit, I'm a little jealous. A private lodge in the Catskills? Who the hell can afford that?"

"I know. Apparently she's an actress," Amanda said, affecting a breathy voice on the last word and batting her eyelashes, à la Marilyn Monroe.

"Ah, say no more," Olivia chuckled, putting a hand up to ward off the impression. They had both dealt with their share of actresses in the past, many of whom were every bit as high-strung and demanding as their profession suggested. In fact, any case involving members of the entertainment industry usually turned into a full-blown circus.

"Right? I don't know where Daphne finds these women. I can barely meet a guy who pays for dinner, let alone whisks me off to his private lodge."

 _Wow._  Amanda had to take a moment to marvel at her own stupidity with that one. Not only did she just set feminism back a good thirty years, she got the sense that somewhere in the space between herself and the woman beside her—a space unseen by the naked eye—a door that had cracked open inch by inch suddenly swung closed, firmly and irrevocably. She tried to gauge Olivia's reaction, but a half-smile and a single nod weren't enough to go on.

She sighed and stood up. Best git while the gettin's good (or whichever corn-pone phrase properly summed up this disastrous encounter). "All right, I better let you get back to your paperwork so you can go home to your kiddos. Sorry I interrupted."

"Oh." Olivia brushed the comment off, getting to her feet as well. She hesitated for a few seconds, facing Amanda in an awkward stance—not at all the confident posture she typically wore like a snappy three-piece suit. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Fin and Carisi, who were just returning from their nightclub excursion and flicking waves at the office window. She raised her palm and straightened to her full height. "It's okay. Glad we could talk. Clear things up a bit."

 _Or not at all_ , Amanda thought as she headed for the door. "Me too."

"Hey."

"Yeah?" Pausing with a hand on the doorknob, Amanda cast a hopeful glance over her shoulder.

Olivia had resumed her post behind the desk, glasses back in place on the bridge of her nose, not lowered for a better look at distant objects, at faces. All business. "Just— thanks for the invite." She picked up the leftover stack of DD-5's and 61's in want of reviewing and busied herself shuffling through them, offering a final, distracted, "Have a good night, Detective."

"You too, Lieutenant."

 

* * *

 


	2. Introspection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, thank you all so much for the reviews of chapter 1! I **so enjoy** (and appreciate) reading your feedback and theories about what's going to happen next. Y'all are very astute readers. ;) I got some questions about how often I plan to update, since the story is finished—my original goal was one chapter a week, but here we are, five days later and I'm already posting an update. So, obvs, it's not a hard and fast rule, lol. I'm still going to try to keep it around 5ish days between updates. HOWEVER! There are a few chapters I split in half because they were freakishly long, and I don't want to screw too much with the flow of the story, so I will probably post those a little closer together. (FYI, there's 12 chapters total. And I'm not trying to torture you guys by making you wait, I promise. I tend to tinker with my stories right up until the last minute, so giving myself some downtime between updates lets me add the finishing touches I might've otherwise overlooked. :) Also, I'm just throwing this out there, but I'm making YouTube playlists of some of the songs that are referenced in this fic & in _The Devil You Know_. I'd be happy to post links if anyone's interested in listening. Here's chapter 2!

* * *

  

Color me your color, baby  
Color me your car  
Color me your color, darling  
I know who you are  
Come up off your color chart  
I know where you're comin' from

\- Blondie, "Call Me"

**. . .**

From the notes of Peter Lindstrom, MD, regarding patient O. Benson, Feb. 11, 2020:

 _\- Appears agitated and defensive_  
_\- Restless, unfocused; difficulty maintaining direct eye contact (lying?)_  
_\- Still avoiding certain topics (i.e. Det. Rollins)  
_ _\- Addendum: Follow up on her feelings re: Det. Rollins, the Catskills & her children._

 

* * *

**CHAPTER 2:** Introspection

**. . .**

The silence stretched on for several more seconds, until Olivia's ears began to itch with it. She hated when he did this. Not only because it made her uncomfortable, but also because it was a tactic she herself used to get perps talking. It was amazing how much information you could extract from a person just by staring at them, hands folded placidly in your lap. More often than not, guilty people couldn't handle the silence and some of them ended up confessing just to fill it. If Dr. Lindstrom thought she was one of those people, he was sorely mistaken.

But he was also charging her by the hour, and she'd already wasted too much of that on this little charade. "I know what you want me to say," she said, leaning her elbow on the back of the large armchair in which she sat, angled towards him. He'd offered her a seat on the couch when she entered thirty minutes ago, but she'd opted for the leather chair next to his, where they would be on equal ground. It was a power play, requiring him to turn in her direction, instead of facing her head-on—or so he pointed out to her years ago, while noting her need to be in control.

"I'm afraid, Dr. Lindstrom, no amount of therapy will be changing that," she'd warned. And damned if she hadn't hit the nail on the head.

"I don't want you to say anything unless  _you_  want to, Olivia," he replied now, benign smile affixed to his already benign features. He was an excellent therapist who had helped Olivia navigate many of the darkest parts of her soul—and still manage to come out sane on the other side—but there were times his mild Mister Rogers temperament made her want to curse. Profusely.

Like when he made her analyze herself.

"Well, obviously you think I should go, otherwise you wouldn't have asked why I turned down Amanda's invitation. Then you nodded when I said I needed to work." Olivia hadn't intended the last part to sound so accusatory; she relaxed a bit, only realizing how tense her muscles were when the pain in her shoulder flared. It did that occasionally, since her attack and subsequent injury a year and a half ago. Sixteen long months of recovery, both physically and mentally. Almost a lifetime for her daughter, the one bright spot to come out of that bleak and terrifying ordeal.

"I nodded?" Lindstrom repeated, vaguely bemused. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't that suggest agreement?"

"Not the way you do it. You nod like you're waiting for me to tell you the real reason. Like I'm using work as an excuse to avoid my feelings again, but I haven't done that in months. I'm making time for my kids and myself, just like you told me to." Olivia finished with a small huff and raked her fingers through her hair, letting it fall in a gentle, steady cascade. Recently she'd considered cutting it short, annoyed by its heft and the heat on her neck—had actually picked up a pair of scissors and almost started hacking during many a hot flash—but an offhanded compliment from Rollins stayed her hand.

At some point last year, when haircare took a back seat to the mad morning rush of two children and a coffee addiction, Olivia arrived at work  _au naturel_ —or rather, her hair did. She hadn't worn it so freely since being undercover as Persephone James, when she'd infiltrated an environmental group so deeply she practically lived on an Oregon commune. (No time for blow drying when you were busy protesting fracking and deforestation.) Upon entering the squad room, she paused mid-stroll to her office when a shrill sound made her turn, ready to write up the foolhardy uni who dared whistle at the boss. It was Rollins. She gave Olivia's loose, wavy locks the once-over, nodding approval, and said, "Wow. Suits you."

Since then, the only changes made were a few touch-ups here and there to conceal the silver strands that tried desperately to creep in with the dark brown.

"Olivia, did you hear me?"

"What?" As if caught stealing from the cookie jar, Olivia perked her head up and dropped the strand of hair she was twirling around her finger. It spiraled off into a buoyant ringlet, voluminous and not the least bit subtle.

"I said it's good that you're taking time for yourself, but that you don't seem very happy. Why do you think that is?"

Olivia tamed the curl by combing her fingers through it, then shrugged, propping her head against the same hand. "I don't know. I think I'm just in a funk. Last night, Amanda asked me if I was angry with her. I guess I've been treating her differently the past couple months without even realizing— well, anyway, she called me on it, and she was right to. I have been . . . off. With her."

"May I make an observation?" Lindstrom asked, putting down the pen he was using to scribble notes. He steepled his fingers above the leather-bound notebook in his lap.

"Of course."

"This is the first time you've mentioned Detective Rollins in quite some time. You used to speak of her frequently during our sessions, after your assault."

 _Which one?_  Olivia thought bitterly, but held her tongue. She knew he meant the most recent: the Mangler.

"Back then, it seemed like the two of you were becoming very close. But, if memory serves, you haven't included her in our conversations since the shootout that nearly claimed her life. About six months ago, is that right?"

"Yes," Olivia said in a wary tone. She felt her defenses going up, as they often did when someone observed more about her than she meant to let on. Holdover from a childhood spent hiding her mother's alcoholism from concerned teachers and nosy neighbors.

"Is it safe to say that might be the source of your contention with Detective Rollins, then?"

"I wouldn't necessarily call it contention. But yes, I suppose that's when it started." Olivia caught herself rubbing her palms together briskly, as if to warm them, though she wasn't cold. She tucked them between her thighs, drawing her knees up further so both legs were folded beneath her on the chair. She regretted slipping her flats off earlier. Bare feet made her feel vulnerable.

"I'm not angry with her," she added. "I'm angry at the man who shot at her."

The doctor leaned back in his chair, keenly observing her, chin propped on his hand, his index and middle fingers extended along his jawline. He looked so much like the stereotype of a therapist that Olivia would have laughed, were she not so on edge. "And why is that," he asked, then chuckled lightly himself, "besides the obvious reasons, of course."

Fighting off the urge to respond with another shrug and leave it at that—she was fifty-two, not fifteen—Olivia let her thoughts drift back to that night: waiting in a van outside the brothel, her nerves jangling so loudly she could barely hear Amanda's voice over the wire. She knew her detective was smart and more than capable of handling the assignment, but that hadn't stopped Olivia from feeling like a rattlesnake was coiled in her gut—engorged with venom, hissing—when she watched the blonde strut into the building, sporting skintight leather, stilettos, and no gun.

Then, when the gunfire started and she had been running blindly for the door, the snake struck over and over again, sinking its fangs deep into her soft, pink insides, her meaty organs, her very bones. She heard the SWAT team shouting, but their words didn't make sense. If one of them hadn't grabbed her, wrestling her away from the entrance, she would have plunged headlong into the salvo. (She elbowed the poor schmuck in the face to break free; luckily, he bought her "adrenaline" excuse afterwards.)

By the time she made it through, shoving past men half her age and twice her size, she'd mostly regained some self-control. But the venom reached her heart when she saw the slender blonde, leather-clad, one heel lost in the fray, lying prone in a pool of blood. She went down on one knee, legs refusing to hold her upright. She reached for the dead woman, her sick, poisoned heart faltering as if she were next. And that's when she knew:

She loved Amanda Rollins.

But the body had belonged to someone else. And when the living, breathing Detective Rollins was in her arms, Olivia did what she had always done best—she buried her feelings and got back to work. And just look where it had gotten her.

"Because," she ventured, focusing on the flames that crackled in the fireplace behind her therapist, "I'm afraid . . ."

She hesitated for so long, he gently prompted, "Of?"

Olivia held her breath until she had no choice but to exhale, and with it: "Losing her." She kept her eyes trained on the hypnotic blaze, unable to pry it away or even blink. When her lashes finally did flutter on their own, it snapped her back into reality, where Dr. Lindstrom sat watching her, intent as ever.

"And why should that frighten you so? You've said goodbye to colleagues in the past. It's not easy, but you've managed. Why is this different?"

"Because I need— I want—" A surge of something akin to the violence that had exploded within her when she beat William Lewis to a bloody pulp made Olivia stiffen in her seat. She grabbed the armrests and held on tight.

"I think I have feelings for her," she blurted, and with that exposed, the rest tumbled forth: "Not the feelings I'm supposed to have. I'm her superior officer, for one. And I've always been attracted to men, for another. It's not that I'm against it—I support the LGBT community wholeheartedly—it's just not something I ever expected to be a part of . . . personally.

"I mean, it has come up a lot at work for some reason. And plenty of women have made passes at me. A couple of weeks ago a suspect's sister asked me out while he was still in the lineup." Olivia forced a weak laugh, cutting it short almost as soon as it started. "It's flattering, but I've always turned them down because . . . that wasn't me. Or at least I didn't think so."

"Have you—"

"Could it be transference?" she asked, aware of the interruption but wanting to get everything out before she clammed up again. "I know that's usually between a therapist and a patient, but it can happen with anyone, I'd assume. That's probably it, right?

"Amanda saved my life when Calvin tried to kill me. She was there for me afterwards, helped me get back on my feet. She literally held my hand a few times. Listened when I needed to talk. She's even the one who encouraged me to adopt Matilda. We went through something tremendous together, and I wouldn't be here if not for her. That's bound to create strong feelings. It was the same way with Elliot after everything he and I experienced together as partners. Now he's long gone, so those feelings needed somewhere else to go."

What she had intended as a statement sounded more like it ended in a question mark. She bit her bottom lip, a habit she'd kicked a year into SVU because Captain Cragen told her it looked fretful and indecisive—not at all the earmarks of a good detective—and glanced to Lindstrom for confirmation.

"It was my understanding that your feelings for Detective Stabler were genuine," he said after a moment, one knee crossed over the other, the toe of his shiny black oxford making lazy circles in the air.

His calmness made Olivia twice as antsy. It had taken years to accept that her love for Elliot Stabler went beyond mere friendship, beyond loyalty to a twelve year partnership. It was embarrassing and cliché: the lonely heart female cop mooning over the handsome (married) detective. Eight and a half years later, it still made her cringe.

But she had loved him. Plain and simple.

"They were. Very genuine," she admitted softly.

"Then might not your fondness for Detective Rollins be, as well? You mentioned transference, but you've been in high-risk situations with other detectives who came to your aid. Did you develop feelings for any of them?"

Olivia tilted her head in thought, though she already knew the answer. She cared about her coworkers, considered many of them family even, but she hadn't fallen in love with any of them since Elliot. The closest she'd come would have been Nick Amaro, but the age difference and marital drama were a major deterrent. Maybe she was only attracted to people she couldn't have?

"No," she murmured, and looked into the fire again, shaking her head. God, she was fucked up. Probably too damaged for anyone to want her, anyway.

"Olivia? What's wrong?" Lindstrom asked, sounding concerned. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a small oval mirror on the built-in bookcase, and could see why he would be. She looked on the verge of tears. Crying wasn't unusual in these sessions—Lindstrom kept a Kleenex box on the triangular accent table the chairs were positioned around, just for weepy patients like her—but right now, she needed to keep her emotions in check. If for no other reason than to prove she could.

Schooling her features, she gave a toss of her long hair and said, "Nothing. I'm just trying to make sense of all this. If it's not transference, then what is it? Are you saying I might be gay?"

He studied her hard, definitely not buying the excuse, but well enough acquainted with her stubbornness to know better than to press a topic she was avoiding. "I can't answer that question for you. That's something only you can know. But I did notice you said you've 'always been attracted to men.' You didn't say you've never been attracted to women. Was there ever a time you were attracted to someone of the same sex?"

As ridiculous as it seemed, Olivia felt her cheeks warming. Day in and day out, she heard (and sometimes watched, in cases involving the porn industry) the most vivid sexual descriptions imaginable and discussed intimate details that would make most pros blush; she'd probably talked dirty more times in her career than a phone-sex operator, all in the name of securing a confession from drooling perps. She could blithely suggest a three-way while undercover at a club, or play the seductress so convincingly the seduced never knew what hit him. But the minute her own desires came into question, she buttoned up like a goddamned schoolmarm.

"Well," she drawled, hands suddenly aflutter. She forced them back down into her lap, as if they were unruly birds in need of taming. "Everyone develops a crush on at least one of their college professors, right?"

"And this professor was female?"

Olivia nodded, throat gone dry. Ironically enough, it had been her English professor. She was sure there was some sort of Oedipal connotation to be found in that, but it would have to wait till another day. "Yes. Professor McAdams. Funny and whip-smart. She told us to call her by her first name. Piper."

She smiled at the memory of the vibrant, slightly eccentric teacher, who had seemed quite worldly to her nineteen-year-old self. In truth, Piper McAdams probably hadn't been more than thirty or so. But she'd rekindled Olivia's childhood love of books—almost extinguished after seeing what little comfort they afforded her mother—and spoke to her as if they were equals. Plus, in a shocking turn of events, the English professor never drank.

"She was very professional," Olivia hastened to add. "Nothing ever would've happened. And I don't know that I even wanted it to. I was so young . . . I suppose I do tend to gravitate towards strong women, though. Women like Piper, who aren't afraid to be themselves no matter what anyone thinks."

"So, there have been others?"

"To an extent. There was a trainer at the academy who I really looked up to. I also got very close with my first partner's sister." Olivia thought back to the snow globe on her desk at work—the one she had held in her hands the night before; the one Amanda watched her shake up, blue eyes icy sharp and sparking. "And Alex Cabot."

"Cabot. She's the ADA who was placed in witness protection, is that correct?"

Gathering a deep breath, Olivia gave a slow, measured nod. Not only was Alex still a sore spot for her, it was also the first time she had let herself examine the true nature of their friendship. Now, mostly a memory. "She's the closest I've ever gotten to— well, one of the closest female friends I've ever had. But I was especially drawn to her. I think if I could have ever fallen for a woman, she would've been the one."

"And yet, she left you. Just like Detective Stabler. And just like Detective Rollins could have six months ago, during the shootout."

The tears came then, and this time Olivia didn't try to stop them. "What's your point? That I'm so unlovable, everyone's destined to leave me?" She snatched a tissue from the box beside her, but shredded it instead of drying her eyes. "Gotta say, doc, I'm not surprised. My own mother couldn't love me, why should anyone else?"

"Absolutely not." Lindstrom sat forward quickly, putting aside his pen and paper, and using his hands for emphasis. "That couldn't be farther from the truth, Olivia. Your mother was a damaged woman—"

 _Like me_ , she thought, just to spite him.

"—but that wasn't your fault. And it certainly doesn't make you unlovable. Look at how much you love your children; and their birth parents were deeply flawed individuals. And the devotion you inspire in those around you is proof that not everyone leaves you. Sometimes people do move on, yes, but it's a part of life."

He pulled out another tissue and passed it over. "The point I was making is that your fear of losing Detective Rollins might be what's causing the current rift between you. And if you feel that strongly about her, it may be something worth exploring. Have you expressed any of this to her?"

"No." Olivia dabbed her cheeks dry and quietly blew her nose into the Kleenex he'd offered. The other lay in a flaky white pile on her lap, like a little mound of snow. "I don't see how I could. She's my subordinate. We'd probably both lose our badges if 1PP caught wind, or at least get transferred to separate departments. It would be a mess."

She gestured at the other mess on her pleated gray slacks, scooping up the ribbons of tissue and depositing them in the trash can under the table. Now the white specks left in her lap just looked like dandruff. "Besides," she said, swiping them off, "I doubt she feels the same way about me. She likes men. She's never shown any interest in dating a woman. That I've seen."

"It's possible she thinks the same thing about you." Dr. Lindstrom raised his shoulder in a one-sided shrug. "How will you ever know for sure, if you never ask?"

"Actually, I was kind of hoping to sit back, do nothing, and let the chips fall where they may," she said, a wry smile on her lips. She felt a bit better after the release of pent up emotion, as if she had vomited out a bellyful of toxic sludge. There seemed to be a never-ending supply these days.

The doctor gave a light chuckle, waggling his finger to nix the idea. "I think we both know that's not a healthy option."

"Darn." Olivia balled the damp Kleenex into her fist, which she shook at him playfully. Curled inside, arcing along the heel of her palm, was a scar roughly the same length and appearance as a caterpillar. The result of grabbing Amanda's pocketknife by the serrated blade, during their collaborative efforts to escape the Manhattan Mangler. (A slender but far more insidious scar traced a pale line across the middle of her throat. Hardly anyone noticed it, unless she pointed it out to them—and she never did.)

She stroked the soft ridges of the blemish with her fingertips, a habit that would become a compulsion if she wasn't mindful, and said, "So, I guess you do recommend the Catskills, then?"

Smiling his placid smile, he replied, "Might do you some good to get away. Perhaps give you some perspective. It would be an opportunity for you to speak with Amanda outside of work, as well."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

"Don't you owe it to yourself to try? In previous sessions you've mentioned dissatisfaction with your love life. You've ended several past relationships—viable ones—due to lack of fulfillment, have you not?"

"Jesus, do you memorize every word I say? What're you, a cop?" she asked, only half-joking, then glanced at the notepad he indicated. "Oh. Right."

It was true, though. She had been the one to call off nearly every serious romance in her life. From her broken engagement at sixteen, to her most recent failure with Ed Tucker, whom she suspected had been on the verge of proposal during their Paris getaway, she always found an excuse to run. Even when she wasn't the instigator, when the final tears were brought on by someone else—David Hagen, or even Elliot Stabler in a way—she never fought for the relationship. Maybe all along she'd just been looking in the wrong places for something worth fighting for.

"You deserve to be happy, Olivia," said Lindstrom, patting his knee as if it were her hand, "despite what you may think. If this is your chance to have that, then yes, I think you should go."

One last-ditch effort: "I'm not sure I should leave my kids. Noah, with his acting out, and Matilda is still so young . . ."

"Your inner turmoil affects your children, too. Wouldn't it be better for them to see you venture out for a few days and enjoy yourself rather than stay home and remain unhappy? All that will matter to them is that you returned in a better frame of mind than when you left."

Twenty minutes later, bill paid and her next biweekly appointment scheduled—down considerably from the thrice-a-week record she set, after meeting the Mangler—Olivia took out her cell phone and dialed Amanda on the way to her car.

"Hey, Rollins. It's me," she said when the detective answered.

"Liv, hi." Amanda sounded surprised, but not unpleasantly so. "Hey, what's up?"

"That trip you invited me on?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm in."

 

* * *

 

It turned out, "chinchilla unicorn goddess" was a pretty accurate description of Meredith Ashton—or more precisely, her hair. Amanda would even go so far as to add mermaid to the list of mythical creatures that might possess such a mane. The color of warm honey, and just as sensual, it flowed in loose spirals that tapered perfectly at the center of the woman's back. She was a walking Pantene commercial, and Amanda felt more than a little inadequate as she watched the woman wheel a suitcase large enough to transport two bodies into the foyer.

Growing up, her shock of white-blonde hair had been oohed and ahhed over by every grandmother in the town of Loganville, GA. By high school, she was the envy of any girl who didn't come by their flaxen locks naturally. And as an adult, she was fairly confident about her styling technique, although just as likely to tug the whole affair back into a messy ponytail as not. But despite half an hour in front of the bathroom mirror that morning, a blow dryer in one hand, flat iron in the other (Jesse screaming for orange juice, Frannie pooping on the welcome mat), she now hated every pale and scrawny strand on her godforsaken head.

She contemplated extending the handle of her moderate-sized Samsonite, rolling it out the wrought iron French doors and down the townhouse steps, hailing a cab, and returning to the real world, where people had bad hair days and lived in tiny apartments that smelled like Tropicana and dog crap. But Meredith was parking her luggage beside Amanda's, and smiling as she shrugged a Gucci travel bag from her shoulder, settling it on top. "The butler can take these out," she said, giving the totes a dismissive little wave.

Amanda forced a queasy smile.  _Taxi!_  she thought, glancing sideways at the exit. When the laughter rang out, it doubled back from the vaulted ceilings, reminding her of an echoey old cathedral. She turned to see what was so amusing, and found both women—Meredith and Daphne—grinning at her.

"I'm totally kidding," said Meredith, whose laugh sounded like it should be accompanied by a scotch and cigar. Her speaking voice was a few octaves higher, making for an amusing contrast.

"I don't have a butler. Daph told me how much you hated the last actress she dated. I couldn't resist."

"Oh my God." Amanda groaned, then joined in with a snicker. "You got me good. I was about to bolt."

"We know," Daphne said, lugging a massive duffel up by its strap and swinging it onto her back with one hand. She almost toppled forward. "You practically sprouted Road Runner legs. I think you even made that little noise. Meep meep."

"Look who's talking, Mighty Mouse," Amanda shot back, stepping in to help with the bag that weighed approximately as much as Daphne herself. "Good Lord, did you pack your bowling ball?"

Still teasing and comparing each other to various cartoon characters, the women filed outside and down the steep front stairs of Meredith's Park Avenue residence. All three were wrestling the duffel bag into the trunk of her cobalt blue BMW—which probably cost more than Amanda made in a year—when a familiar voice called, "Need some help?" from behind them.

Benson had arrived. Arms wrapped around the bulky bag, Amanda threw her weight into it like a linebacker driving a tackle dummy down the field during practice. No match for her stubbornness, it wedged into place between Meredith's luggage and the top of the trunk. "Got it," she announced proudly, then swiveled on her heel to watch her boss approaching from an Uber across the street.

She could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen Olivia wearing jeans in the past five years. They were a pleasant reminder that the lieutenant was a regular person, but also memorable because she looked damn good in them. And the pair she wore today were no exception.

Hugging her curves in all the right places, the dark blue denim was tucked into a cute pair of flannel-lined duck boots in black and white plaid. She'd topped the look off with a candy apple red turtleneck and an insulated black Columbia jacket, left open for the unseasonably warm February temperatures. Aviators propped on her head, she squinted against the bright winter sun as she approached. A white cashmere scarf draped around her neck, completing the ensemble.

She looked all of thirty-five, rolling her suitcase up to the trio (Amanda was happy to note it matched hers in size) and flashing a wide, pretty smile.

"Hi," Olivia said, addressing Amanda, but spreading it around with a nod to the others. "I'm so sorry I'm late. Noah decided to have a last minute meltdown about me leaving. And Matilda started crying because he was crying . . . anyway, hi." She put her hand out to Daphne. "I'm Olivia."

"Don't worry about it," Amanda said, waving off the apology. After a morning spent cleaning up juice and fecal matter, a little bit of crying sounded tame. She felt badly for her friend, though; Olivia often fretted over Noah's behavior, especially after the shoving incident a couple years ago. He was most likely testing her limits, but Amanda understood the mother's concerns. With a biological father like Noah's, any type of aggression was bound to send up a red flag. She made a mental note to ask after Olivia's children when they had a moment to themselves.

"It took us an hour to get this one's stuff in there, anyway," she added, hitching a thumb at Daphne and the trunk. "So, you're fine."

"'This one's' name is Daphne, by the way," said the clerk, accepting Olivia's hand for a polite—if somewhat longer than necessary—shake. She had promised to be on her best behavior around the lieutenant, but that was clearly going to be a challenge: she gazed up at Olivia the way Amanda had gazed up at the lavish townhouse when they first arrived. "It's so nice to finally meet you. Amanda talks about you all the time. Only good things."

Amanda widened her eyes at Daphne—the universal signal for "Are you serious right now?" This was going to be a very long weekend.

"I'm glad," Olivia said with an amiable laugh. "She's told me a lot about you, too. Like how you helped out with the Mangler case. You have my sincerest gratitude for that one, by the way."

"Oh, it was nothing. I just opened a file." After a fair attempt at playing it cool, Daphne gave up and beamed like a kindergartner holding up a finger painting. "But you're very welcome."

"Liv, this is Meredith Ashton," said Amanda, trying to break up the handshake before she had to physically pry Daphne off her boss. Why she chose to do so by gesturing at the actress like a presenter on a game show, Amanda couldn't say. She put her arms down hastily, relieved when Meredith stepped forward to take the spotlight.

"I'm a hugger," Meredith said, bypassing Olivia's outstretched hand and gathering her into a quick hug.

To the lieutenant's credit, she accepted the embrace without a single groan or eye roll. Amanda had been subjected to the same greeting twenty minutes ago, and she may or may not have sighed.

"I promise, it's one of my only really annoying habits." Meredith stepped back with Olivia at arm's length, and grinned. Her hair, golden and streaming in the sunlight, showcased her face like a gilded frame. She was quite lovely, and not just because of the hair. Pretty in an accessible way, like a friend or a sister. Her eyes were blue, but her warmth and charm made them seem brown. She smiled often.

"Pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant," she said, doing just that—smiling.

"Likewise. Please, call me Olivia."

When the pleasantries were through, both women continued to chatter about what movies or plays Olivia might know the actress from (it turned out she'd had a minor role in an early season of  _American Horror Story_ , which actually seemed to impress the lieutenant; Amanda was more impressed by the musicals), as they put Olivia's suitcase in the trunk. It slid in easily beside Amanda's.

While backs were turned, Daphne seized her opportunity: pointing at Olivia, who was bent over making sure no one's luggage got smashed, she mouthed, "Oh. My. God."

And then, "So hot."

In return, Amanda mouthed, "Shut up!" and smacked the clerk's hand away when it traced an outline suggestive of a curvaceous backside. Daphne giggled behind the culprit, but quickly dropped it to her side when the other women shut the trunk and faced them. If Olivia noticed the hijinks, she didn't let on.

"Well, ladies, shall we be off?" Meredith asked, retrieving some shades from her purse and slipping them on.

"Let's," said Daphne, the policewomen echoing their agreement.

Right out of the gate, things got awkward. Despite a spacious inside cabin, the car was a two door. Once they had worked out that Daphne would ride shotgun, putting Amanda and Olivia in the back seat, it was time for the ungainly task of squeezing past the inclined front seat and under the belt, much like a fetus exiting the birth canal. Amanda made the mistake of allowing the lieutenant to go first, providing Daphne with another rear view. Fortunately, the clerk kept herself in check—until she caught Amanda looking and quirked a knowing eyebrow.

Rolling her eyes and ducking in after Olivia was seated, Amanda plunked down on the plush leather upholstery, or at least she would have if the heel of her black boot hadn't snagged on the seat belt retractor. Instead, she executed a graceless sideways flop onto the seat, practically landing headfirst in Olivia's lap.

_Goddammit._

"You okay there, Rollins?" Olivia asked, smirking slightly as she helped her up with a hand under the elbow.

"Yeah," Amanda muttered, wanting to sink back into the footwell from whence she came. This was going to be a very,  _very_  long weekend. "Just got caught on the thing. Not used to crawling into back seats with someone anymore."

Dead silence followed the statement for a full ten seconds, then: ten more seconds of raucous laughter from each passenger. Even Amanda had to join in. "You know what I mean," she said over the din, loosening up a bit now that she'd broken the ice by making a fool of herself. "My dad had a pickup truck when I was a kid. My mom wouldn't let us sit in the bed, so it was always me and my sister crammed into that little back compartment. Get your minds out of the gutter, you pervs."

"So yours can float on by?" asked Daphne.

"Did you just call me a perv?" Olivia's smirk moved beyond mere expression, into a physical state of being. She usually looked like that seconds before delivering a verbal smackdown to some perp who had gravely underestimated her ability to rip him a new one. Fortunately, there was now a playful glint behind the narrowed brown eyes. "I could write you up for insubordination, you know."

"Oh, you're a perv  _and_  a snitch, then," Amanda said slyly, feeling like she'd regained a few cool points. A collective "ooohh" from the front seat confirmed it.

"At least I didn't just get my ass handed to me by a seat belt." Olivia punctuated the remark by fastening her own belt with an exaggerated and well-timed click. "Remind me to drive next time we're in pursuit. Wouldn't want you to injure yourself on a door handle or something."

The audience up front switched sides, this time cheering Olivia on with sizzling noises—Meredith licked her fingertip first, then touched an imaginary patch of skin—and high fives. Amanda pretended to be put out, but she enjoyed the sparring. She and Olivia hadn't joked around like this in quite a while, all insults and false bravado; so long, in fact, Amanda had feared they never would again.

There were a few times it had gone beyond banter—felt a whole lot like flirtation, actually—but she'd never pressed it. Tough as Olivia was, the Mangler aftermath had left her emotionally fragile and scarred in more ways than just the caterpillar shape on her palm or the nearly imperceptible line across her throat. Amanda didn't want to upset the delicate balance Olivia had achieved after weeks of therapy and PTSD relapse. Whatever her own feelings were doing, they would have to wait until Olivia's were sorted out. If there was one thing Amanda had learned from Gamblers Anonymous, it was how easily someone in recovery could be taken advantage of. She'd be damned if she would do that to her friend.

"Obviously you've never seen me behind the wheel of a Camaro," she said with a haughty flick of the hair that rested on her shoulder. "The only thing getting injured would be your pride."

"Obviously you've never seen me in my '65 Mustang convertible." Olivia lowered her sunglasses into place, and purred, "I'd leave you in the dust, little girl."

Taken aback by the seductive tone and the addition of "little girl," a moniker that annoyed the hell out of her when used by the good ol' boys back home (but never made her flush, as it did now), Amanda was temporarily speechless. She caught a glimpse of herself, mouth agape, reflected back in blue-green gradient from Olivia's tinted shades. She clamped her jaw shut with an audible  _plop_  and tried to decipher what was going on behind those dragonfly-colored lenses.

"Holy crap, you've got a '65 Mustang?" Meredith asked, adjusting the rear view mirror for a better look at Olivia, while coasting to a stop at their first red light. "I've always wanted one of those. What color is it?"

Cars weren't really Amanda's thing unless she was driving them or—in another life—betting on them, but the other passengers seemed duly impressed by the lieutenant's taste in motor vehicles. Daphne had twisted around in her seat to listen avidly for the answer. Once again, Amanda felt that strange pang of jealousy stealing through her at the idea of sharing Olivia with someone else. She hadn't even known the woman owned such a car. What else didn't she know?

"Black," Olivia said, sounding as if there were no other option. "Naturally."

"Classic." Meredith nodded her approval.

"Sexy," Daphne said, but refrained from any lascivious overtones. Just showing appreciation for a fine piece of machinery.

Still, Amanda didn't like it. "That's news to me," she said, disliking the sulkiness in her voice even more. But it was already out, so she might as well run with it. "Afraid to let me near it, huh?"

"I barely go near it myself anymore." A wistful little sigh followed the proclamation, and Olivia pointed out the front windshield at the endless flow of traffic from all directions. "Can't exactly go for a Sunday drive around here, and I'm not taking an eight- and two-year-old on a road trip in that thing. It mostly just sits in the garage, gathering dust. I should probably sell it, but I haven't had the heart yet."

A gasp from the driver's seat made the other three women look up in surprise, expecting to see a bus or an out-of-control taxi hurtling towards them. "Don't you dare," Meredith said, clutching her chest. "That is more than a car—that is your  _child_  . . . But if it does need a new home, mine is absolutely available."

Finding that they weren't all on the verge of sudden death, Olivia laughed. "I'll keep that in mind." To Amanda, voice dropping to a murmur, she added, "You can take her for a spin sometime, if you want."

"Yeah, I'd like that." Amanda flashed a bit of dimple and caught herself about to duck her head like a bashful schoolgirl. She tried to remember if she had always been so awkward around her boss, or if it was a new development. The dark thought crossed her mind that the last time she'd engaged with a superior officer in such a manner, it ended in a sexual assault. Hers. (Sometimes she still had trouble owning it.) But one thing she did know for certain when she looked at Olivia: this was a person who would never, ever hurt her.

"I'd like that a lot," she said, adopting the same confidential tone Olivia had used. The women in front could probably still hear, but she didn't much care.

Suddenly and ridiculously happy to be on the trip, she stretched out in her seat and got comfortable for the two hour drive ahead.

 

* * *

 


	3. Idyllic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait till tomorrow to post this, but you guys wore me down. ;) I'm glad y'all are enjoying the banter/flirtation so far. There's quite a bit of it in the next few chapters, but it won't be all fun and games for our girls forever. Just keep that in mind so you're not blindsided later on. Also, here's the link to _The Devil You Know_ playlist I created on YouTube: [TDYK playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLxvPAPtxqTOrzzZCHv5iRULT5svUxE2R9) ... if that doesn't work, my username is gabsfan, so just search that. I tried to add descriptions to the videos, explaining how they fit into the story, but I don't think they showed up. Basically, it's the songs that I got the intro lyrics from for most of the chapters, and a few that were mentioned throughout the story (including Liv's ringtones for the squad, lol). The only one that might need explaining is "Twisted Nerve" from _Kill Bill_. That's the song Amelia is whistling while she makes Olivia's coffee. :P It only just occurred to me that posting a playlist for _this_ fic would be kind of spoiler-y, so I'll hold off on that one till later. Ok, enough rambling from moi. Enjoy chapter 3!

* * *

"Go to the sea or climb the mountain, and with the ruggedest and the savagest you will find likewise the fairest and the most delicate. The greatness and the minuteness of nature pass all understanding."

\- John Burroughs,  _In the Catskills_

**. . .**

"I wish New York still had the death penalty. That fucknut should fry for what he did to all those innocent people."

\- Coxsackie Resident

* * *

 **CHAPTER 3:**  Idyllic

**. . .**

_Come on, don't do this to me_ , Olivia thought as she scooped up her purse and began rummaging through it.  _Not now._

There was never a good time to get a migraine, but halfway through a road trip with three chatty women, two of whom she had just met and liked so far, couldn't have been a worse moment for her brain to start its telltale thrumming. She didn't see auras like some people, nor did she experience any other sort of warning beyond that maddening pulse, that mushroom cloud of pain that bloomed deep within her gray matter, turning it to mush.

In high school, she had read about an ancient practice called trepanning, which involved drilling a hole in the skull, sometimes for medical purposes, but in other cases to expel the evil spirits within. Primitive and superstitious as it sounded, maybe those crazy old men (for it was certainly a man who'd come up with such barbarism) had the right idea. Her migraines could be traced back to the first time she was attacked in her home by William Lewis; he literally got into her head. They had only increased in frequency after being assaulted by Calvin and Amelia. Maybe a little trepanation would get the demons out. She doubted it could hurt much worse than the alternative.

"Shit," she muttered when her fingers closed around a wallet, an EOS lip balm, a container of orange Tic Tacs, and several ink pens: everything but the extra strength Tylenol she sought.

"S'matter?" asked Amanda, who had been dozing against the small window that looked like an afterthought of the full one up front. So, she was one of those travelers.

"Nothing. I can't find my Tylenol. I usually keep a bottle handy, but I must've . . ." Olivia let the rest trail off, and continued digging. She came across a tube of lipstick she'd thought lost forever and a teether that must have been a going away present from Matilda. She worked the latter—a pink silicone butterfly—between her fingers, pinching the heart-shaped nubs on its wings until each of her fingertips was dotted with a single tiny heart.

 _All you need is love_ , she thought, then closed the toy inside her fist and squeezed.

"Do you have a headache?" Amanda sat forward, now fully awake and looking concerned. She began patting down the pockets of her black jeggings, as if a pill bottle might magically appear there. "Another migraine?"

For the briefest of moments, a smile touched Olivia's lips. The detective had become a bit of a mother hen towards her after their time with the Mangler, fussing and fretting over the slightest discomfort Olivia showed. It was wholly unnecessary—silly, really—but so sweet she couldn't bring herself to discourage it. By the same token, she didn't indulge it, either. Not much. No one had ever mothered her, not even Serena Benson, and she'd be damned if she let anyone try.

"Mm. A little," she said with a noncommittal shrug. "It's probably just motion sickness. Happens on long drives sometimes."

Only a partial lie, disguised in a bit of truth. Some sweet to alleviate the bitter. She had never experienced motion sickness until being stuffed into a trunk and then bounced around on the floor of a stolen vehicle for hours on end, imagining the rape, torture, and inevitable death that awaited her. And all the while, William Lewis crooned that terrible song.

She had overheard it once—"Ain't We Got Fun"—coming from her own living room when Noah paused his channel surfing, the reeling, carousel-like ditty catching his ear. She'd hurried into the room, snatched the remote from his hands, and shut the TV off while Doris Day and Gordon MacRae were still scampering around the screen, having a jolly old time. Ah, young love.

The worst part, though, was the look on Noah's face when she told him to go to his room. He refused, and she raised her voice to him. For the first time in his short little life, she yelled at her baby boy. Memories of her own mother screaming at her for reasons she didn't understand came flooding back when he slammed his bedroom door. After an hour-long crying jag—hers, not his—she finally coaxed him back out of his room for ice cream and his choice of television. All was soon forgiven, at least by her eight-year-old. For that momentary loss of control in front of her child, Olivia could never forgive herself.

And apparently she couldn't ride in the backseat for an hour without getting carsick, either. Jesus, she hated how fragile she had become. How weak.

"I don't think I have any Dramamine," Meredith said, tapping the center console between the front seats. "But I might have some Excedrin Migraine in here. I get them after shows sometimes because of all the bright lights. Would that help?"

"Or we could stop at a gas station. Pick something up." Amanda pointed to the interstate sign advertising the available restaurants at the exit they were already passing. "I could use a bathroom break."

"No, it's okay. Excedrin's fine." Olivia turned to the blonde beside her. "Unless you can't wait."

Amanda halted her jouncing knee. "Nah, I'm good. Daddy's pickup was a helluva rough ride compared to this. I built up such a tolerance, I could probably ride a bull on a full bladder and come out bone dry."

"TMI, Mandy Lou," Daphne said as she popped up the console lid and began foraging inside, presumably to find the pills. From the corner of her mouth, she mumbled something that sounded like: "Also, a double entendre."

Headache momentarily forgotten, Olivia raised her sunglasses to look Amanda straight in the eye—her own eyes danced with amusement—and mouthed, "Mandy Lou?"

Amanda threw her hands up in mock exasperation and shook her head. One side of her hair was flatter than the other from leaning on the window, the beachy waves more of a rippling brook. Adorable.

Olivia had the sudden notion to lean over and sniff the pale strands, to see if they carried the scent of the ocean they were meant to emulate. Salt and sunscreen and warm, endless summer. But of course she did no such thing. Instead, she left her aviators perched on top of her head for an unobstructed view. The sun was going down anyway.

"Don't ask," Amanda said in a stage whisper. "I think it's because I'm Southern?"

"It's because you look like Cindy Lou," Daphne called back.

"Who?" Amanda asked.

"Exactly." And before she could be questioned any further, Daphne produced three gift bags from inside the storage compartment. They were small enough to dangle from one finger, each decorated in sparkly red and pink designs, with a froth of matching tissue paper sprouting at the tops. "Ooh, what're these?"

"Oh! I completely forgot." Meredith slid two of the bags onto her own finger, offering them over her shoulder by their pink ribbon handles. "Happy Valentine's Day, girls."

"Aww, you shouldn't have," said Daphne, already tearing into hers.

"No one told me to bring presents," Olivia agreed, only accepting the bags when Meredith swung them back and forth like shiny pendulums, insisting. She held one out to Amanda, extended on her palm. When the detective's fingers grazed her wrist, she could have sworn it was on purpose.

"It's not a big deal. Just a little thank you for joining me this weekend. It's been ages since I had a proper vacay with friends, so you're all doing me a favor, really." Head tilted thoughtfully, Meredith wondered to no one in particular: "Do people still even say 'vacay' anymore? That's how out of the loop I am."

"I think it's all about the Airbnb these days, hon," Daphne said distractedly, rattling a box of candy hearts near her ear. She scrunched her shoulders up in delight, making a similar demonstration after each treat she uncovered: a red heart lollipop, a tiny box of assorted chocolates, and a white envelope containing one Snoopy valentine, the kind grade schoolers tore from a perforated sheet and handed out to their classmates.

Each bag contained the same items—"Be My Sweet Babboo!" Sally Brown announced to a disgruntled Linus, on the card Olivia opened—and after a chorus of thanks from the recipients, Daphne remembered her original mission and dug up the bottle of Excedrin.

Dismissing the voice in her head that warned of choking hazards and esophageal ulcers, Olivia dry swallowed two of the pills. It sounded a lot like her mother, that voice, and she wouldn't take health advice from someone whose liver undoubtedly looked like beef jerky when she died.

As it turned out, Olivia was in more danger of choking on the sucker she had just unwrapped; the second she placed it on her tongue, Daphne exclaimed, "Holy shit, Mere, is this real?" and brandished a nine millimeter handgun like it was a water pistol. From the gleam on the stainless steel slide to the heft in the younger woman's hand, Olivia saw that it was most definitely real. She let out a strangled little cough, cherry-flavored saliva going down the wrong pipe.

"You okay?" Amanda asked, leaning over for a better look at what had elicited the reaction. Her eyes widened when she spotted the gun. "What the hell, Daphne!"

"It's not mine, I found it!" Alerted to the danger in her hand by the detective's sharp tone, Daphne held it away from herself, pinching the grip like it was the head of a poisonous snake. "Take it!"

Calmly, Meredith reached over and rescued the weapon, placing it back in the console and shutting the lid. Problem solved. "It's not loaded. Well, the magazines are in there too, but the gun is empty," she said, as if that cleared up any other questions.

"Okay, I'll ask," Olivia said when the others simply stared at the driver, slack-jawed. She tucked the lollipop inside her cheek, its stick bobbing between her lips like a cigarette as she spoke. "Loaded or not, why do you have a gun in your car at all, Meredith?"

"It's mostly for show. I had a stalker a while back. Creepy guy, always lurking outside the stage door. He followed me home once. So, I got a restraining order and then I got Betty." Meredith gave the console lid an affectionate pat. "Haven't had to use her yet, but she makes me feel safer."

When no one responded, Meredith checked the passengers' faces in her rear view mirror. "What? She's registered and I have a permit to carry. It's all legal."

Olivia pulled the sucker through her pursed lips, making a wet smacking sound. "Still. How about we leave Betty where she is for the rest of the trip?"

"Amen," Rollins muttered.

Frown lines creased the bronzed skin on the actress's forehead. Her tan was flawless, even in the dead of February. "Neither of you brought your guns? I thought with you being cops . . ."

"Huh-uh." Olivia shook her head, patting the slowly dissolving red heart against her tongue a few times. Its tart, tacky surface clung in place, clicking against her teeth when she pulled it loose. She bit down with a loud crunch, breaking it in two. "My service weapon's in my locker at the precinct," she said, between munching, "and my off-duty gun's in a lock box at home where my children will never find it."

"Same," Amanda said, sounding as if her mouth were full of marbles. Or chocolates, as it turned out. She had opened the box and begun biting each of the five bonbons in half, searching for the most desirable filling. The winner was some sort of pink berry-scented fluff that she devoured in two swift bites. "I thought we were headed to the mountains for some relaxation, not going to a gunfight at the OK Corral."

Daphne giggled into her hand, using the other to squeeze Meredith's shoulder when the blonde explained further: "Well, you never know. Four women alone in the middle of nowhere. You hear stories."

 _That you do_ , Olivia thought, soberly chewing on the remainder of her lollipop. When it was gone, she rolled the stick back and forth between her lips until the end was licked clean. She looked up to find Amanda watching her with a funny little smile.

"What?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing." Amanda went back to taste-testing chocolates and rearranging the other treats in her lap. She slipped the box of candy hearts back into the gift bag and lowered her voice, though the women in front were too busy speculating about the possibility of running into bears or ax-wielding maniacs to hear: "Don't tell Pistol Annie up there, but I did bring my knife. If we do meet any bears, I'll fend 'em off for you."

Picturing the pretty blonde detective tackling a grizzly in her honor was enough to make Olivia lean back against the headrest, chuckling. The scenario didn't sound that far-fetched, to be honest. Perhaps it was the sweltering, katydid summers down south, or something in that red Georgia clay, but Rollins had more pluck than any New York cop Olivia had ever known.

It occurred to her then, quite without warning—as so many of the revelations about her feelings towards the detective did—that Amanda made her feel safe. It was the quality she valued most in a partner. Her childhood had reeled between chaos and uncertainty, sending her into adulthood at full tailspin. The academy gave her a stability she sorely needed at the time; soon after, the job became her safe place. And with it, Elliot Stabler.

He was the yardstick by which all the men in her life were inevitably measured: David Haden was a lark, a much needed laugh in her frequently grim world; Brian Cassidy was easy, uncomplicated and inferior enough not to be threatening; Ed Tucker, gruff and strait-laced, was the closest to security she'd gotten. But none of them made her feel as safe as Elliot, whose fierce loyalty and unwavering strength—of character, not just muscle—she never doubted. Until it was gone. She had thought it lost forever, until she found it in another: the blue-eyed, fair-haired Southern belle seated by her side.

"Poor bear wouldn't know what hit him if he took you on," Olivia said, unable to hide the affection in her voice. She covered it quickly, nodding toward Daphne and murmuring, "But if it comes to that, I vote we feed the little one to him and run."

"I heard that," Daphne said above the laughter. Stroking her long side braid, she flashed a coquettish smile. "And any bear would be lucky to have me. I'm delicious."

A few minutes later, when the mirth had died down and each passenger was lost in her own thoughts, lulled by the soft purring of the BMW and the stretch of highway that lay ahead, Meredith dug up an auxiliary cord and asked if anyone minded music. When Olivia gave her blessing—everyone looked to the lady with the headache for confirmation—another lady, by the name of Gaga, began crooning about her diamond heart. Olivia liked the album choice and the volume was kindly kept to a minimum, but her ears were already plugged up from the altitude change as they closed in on more mountainous region. Feeling restless as a travel-weary child, she tore open her box of candy hearts in hopes that chewing would pop her eardrums.

"Head any better?" Amanda asked, watching the twitchy movement from the corner of one eye.

"Mm-hmm. Just ready to be there." Olivia crushed a yellow heart with her back teeth and shook the box at Amanda. "Not a fan?"

The detective shrugged. "I like them, but Jesse looooves them. Saving mine for her. I'll just gorge on chocolate."

Nodding along to the explanation, Olivia poured some of the hearts into her hand. As she sorted through, nudging them over to read each tiny missive—no easy feat without her glasses, which she refused to interrupt her quest and root for—she said, "I'd save mine, but Tilly doesn't like sweets. I know, I'm having her tested. And Noah has about twenty pounds of Valentine's candy he got from a party at school. All the little girls love him, Rollins. I'm doomed."

"It's the dimples." Amanda displayed hers, along with an impeccable row of top teeth. (Olivia was partial to the crooked ones on bottom.) "They drive women wild."

Interesting . . .

Olivia hesitated, unsure if there was a deeper meaning behind the detective's word choice, or if her latest session with Dr. Lindstrom had her reading too much into an innocent comment. Catching herself about to bite her lower lip, she heard Cragen's voice asking:

_Are you fretful, Olivia? Indecisive? Because I can't have either in my squad._

Not on your life, Captain.

She picked up the candy heart she had lingered on, placed it in the center of her empty palm, and extended the message to Amanda.

_Be Mine_

"Wouldn't want you to overdo it with the chocolate," she said when Amanda looked at the offering, then at her, blue eyes keen and searching.

"Thanks."

And a pause. Followed by a tickling at Olivia's outstretched palm, as slender fingers lightly plucked the candy from inside. Amanda rolled the heart between her thumb and index finger a few times, studying the tiny red print, then dropped it under her tongue like a seasoned pill popper. "Mm," she hummed.

From a speaker somewhere behind Olivia's head, Lady Gaga announced, "Here we go!" and a kicky beat incited a dance party in the front seat. But the women in back only had eyes for each other. This time Olivia chose a heart that simply read:

_Hey You_

It went the way of the first, and she was contemplating the equally tame  _Hello_  when Amanda took her by the wrist, guiding that hand over for a closer look. After poking aside  _Good Bye_  and  _LOL_ , the blonde chose  _Smile_  and held it up. Olivia complied—widely—as she slipped the candy into her mouth. While the sugary artificial grape flavor melted onto her tongue, she made another selection and handed it over, eyebrow quirked challengingly:

_Text Me_

Amanda thought for a moment, then reached into her pocket and turned sideways to conceal her phone. It glowed like a beacon in the twilit backseat, the reflection clearly visible in the window, but Olivia feigned surprise when her own cell vibrated under her leg. She couldn't help but grin at the single word on the screen, courtesy of one "Det. Rollins":

_me_

Before she could reply, she felt a hand cup the back of hers—the one holding the candy—and watched as Amanda pilfered an  _XOXO_  from her palm. Pinching it by the rounded edge, Amanda placed the heart near Olivia's lips. Rather than put down the phone to accept, Olivia gathered the treat delicately between her front teeth. Her lips barely grazed the detective's fingertips as they retreated, but when she drew the heart onto her tongue, she tasted the faintest hint of salt. Sweaty palms. Another grin spread across her face, and she realized all at once that the migraine was gone.

While Gaga eulogized "Joanne," the heart exchange continued for several more rounds (Olivia upped the ante to  _Cutie Pie_  and  _Dare Ya_ ; Amanda matched it with  _My Girl_  and  _Yes Dear_ ) until there was one final suggestion that remained. Ignoring her inner captain, Olivia bit her lip and gradually slid the candy across her palm, heart thundering in her chest as she waited for Amanda to read:

**. . .**

_Kiss Me_

Amanda blinked down at the red caption, which stood out brazenly against its background of white confection, and back up at her boss, who looked about as vulnerable as a police lieutenant with twenty-eight years on the force possibly could. Despite all efforts to keep it still, her own hand trembled when she reached for the candy heart. She had just let it tumble between her parted lips, eyes locked on Olivia, when a siren ripped through their silent, breathless connection.

A swirl of red and blue light filled the car, casting patchy shadows on Olivia's startled features. Her hair, long and enticingly heavy, swung about her shoulders as she whipped around to peer out the back window. Amanda caught a whiff of coconut shampoo when she turned in the same direction to see the rapidly approaching patrol car.

"Oh my God, we're all gonna get arrested for possession of a firearm," Daphne moaned, stacking her purse and various other items on top of the center console. "I work in a courthouse, I can't have a record."

"I don't think it's us," Meredith said, easing up on the gas and angling the BMW onto the shoulder of the highway.

"It's not." Amanda sucked on the candy heart, watching in amazement as not one but seven sheriff cruisers whizzed past the driver's side, doing at least ninety miles an hour. "Good Lord," she exhaled, only vaguely aware that she was close enough for Olivia to smell the sweetness on her breath, for it to stir the dark tresses near the woman's ear.

"Must be a really bad accident up ahead." Meredith pulled cautiously onto the road and resumed the speed limit, falling back in with a long line of vehicles, some of which hadn't slowed down at all. "Hope everyone's okay."

"Maybe it's a bank robbery," Daphne said warily, continuing to lean on the slapdash barricade she'd constructed.

"Active shooter?" Olivia guessed, glancing to Amanda for her input. Their faces were inches apart and the lieutenant's gaze flitted downward when Amanda crunched softly into the last bit of candy. For just a moment she seemed poised on closing the distance with the kiss she—or rather, the conversation heart—had proposed. She leaned back against the seat instead.

Stifling a sigh, Amanda retreated to her side of the vehicle as well. "I call prison break."

"Well, whatever it is, that literally almost scared the piss out of me." Daphne danced around in the passenger seat, and this time it wasn't because of Gaga, who was wailing about being strung out on John Wayne. "Is there someplace to take a bathroom break nearby?"

"Our exit's only a couple miles up. It's about twenty minutes from there to the lodge, but we can stop at a gas station first. Can you hold on another minute or two, babe?" Meredith gave the clerk's bouncing leg a soothing pat.

"Yeah, just as long as there's no more high speed chases before we get there. I don't have Amanda's pelvic floor muscles of steel. Not enough Kegels in the world."

By the time they pulled into the Sunoco parking lot, Olivia had finally stopped cackling about the Kegels comment, but Amanda's cheeks were still rosy—in part because she was almost certain the current song lyrics were about masturbation. She'd been eleven years old, her sister only seven, when their mother overheard them singing the Divinyls song "I Touch Myself" and gave them the most embarrassing lecture of their young lives. Listening to Lady Gaga sing about rubbing the pain out, while Olivia Benson sat less than two feet away, was almost as mortifying as that early introduction to self-gratification.

Amanda desperately needed to get out of the damn car. She extracted herself from the backseat, practically doing a chin-up alongside the vehicle as she held the open door frame and pulled, contorting and slithering her way free. Clearing the seat belt and landing on her feet, she was already inside the station before Daphne had shut the car door behind them.

"You've extinguished the flames, I see," said the clerk, sidling up to Amanda several minutes later. She was drying her hands on a brown paper towel that strongly resembled burlap.

"Huh?" Amanda glanced up from the soda bottles she'd been staring at through the closed cooler door since entering the pit stop. She had completely forgotten about the bathroom.

"You blew in here like you were on fire. I think you left scorch marks in the asphalt." Daphne draped herself seductively against the glass, blocking the cooler from view. She struck a pose dramatic enough to be on the cover of a romance novel. "Things getting too steamy for you in the backseat with Lieutenant Foxypants, hm?"

The guess was a little too good for Amanda's liking. She took the smaller woman by the arms and moved her aside, then reached into the cooler and grabbed a Mountain Dew. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her breath fogging up the door as it swung shut. She was surprised the word "liar" didn't materialize in the mist.

"Oh, come on, it's like the love scene from  _Titanic_  back there. Any minute, Leonardo DiCaprio's hand is going to pop up and smear sex sweat across the window." Daphne demonstrated on the cooler door, swiping at the cloudy glass.

Amanda fixed an impassive expression on her face and spoke in a monotone: "God, you need to get laid tonight."

"True. And I'm working on it. But that's beside the point."

"Which is?"

"Dude. She's totally flirting with you."

"Who? Liv?"

Daphne clucked her tongue. "No, Betty the handgun," she said, then shook Amanda gently by the shoulders. "Yes,  _Liv_ , you boob. 'I'd leave you in the dust, little girl'?  _I_  practically had an orgasm when she said that, and she wasn't even talking to me."

"Would you—" Amanda peeked over the aisles of junk food and auto accessories, making sure no one was within earshot. They appeared to be the only two people in the store, other than a bored-looking attendant behind the cash register. She clamped a palm over Daphne's mouth anyway. "—shush! You're crazy. She's my boss, Daph. Plus, she's straight. Trust me, she's not interested."

A pair of bright blue eyes blinked lazily in response. But Daphne couldn't stay silent for long. When the hand eased away, she lowered her tone to a confidential level. "And trust me, I've been a lesbian for thirty-four years. I know when a chick is hitting on another chick, okay? There is no way in gay hell that woman is straight."

Releasing a growl that was equal parts defeat and helpless amusement, Amanda mimed strangling Daphne with her bare hands. She started walking her friend towards the service counter, but as they passed a row of cheap coffee mugs and other tchotchkes, Daphne pivoted around on her fuzzy brown Uggs.

"Also, I may have told Meredith that you and Olivia are a couple, so if you could play along, that'd be great. See you in the car."

When Daphne made a run for it, Amanda seized the hood of her coat—also fuzzy—and waited until the resistance forced her to backtrack the last few steps.

"You did what, now?" Amanda asked, though she had heard just fine. She held up a silencing finger before the reply came. "Why in God's name would you tell her that? And before you answer, keep in mind I know five ways to kill a person with just a paperclip."

"It kind of slipped out. Olivia's smoking hot—you both are. But she's closer to Meredith's age, and she's so damn accomplished. I got worried Mere might lose interest in me if she thought you or Liv were available." Daphne cast a pitiful, pleading look upwards, fingers clasped together beneath her chin like an orphan in a stage musical, begging for more gruel.  _Please, sir, pretend you're a lesbian._

"Don't be mad. It's a compliment to your superiority over me, as a woman and as dyke bait."

"Oh my God, I feel like I'm in an episode of  _Friends_  right now," Amanda groaned, cooling her forehead with the knobby end of her soda bottle. She would be the one with a migraine before this night was through.

"Does that mean you'll do it?"

"It means . . ." Glancing out the storefront windows, Amanda caught sight of the BMW parked at the curb. In the harsh glare from the security lights posted around the building, she could just discern Olivia's outline in the backseat of the car. She licked her teeth, still coated with the chalky aftertaste of Brach's candy hearts. "It means I won't make it obvious we're not together, unless Liv does. Then you're on your own."

Daphne raised her arms in triumph and looped them around Amanda's neck for a quick hug. "You're the best, Mandy Lou."

"Is that all? You didn't tell her I was giving birth to my brother's triplets or something, did you?"

"Ew, no." Daphne leaned back and wrinkled her little snub of a nose, arms still encircling Amanda like they were slow dancing at a junior high formal. "Since when do you have a brother?"

"It's from— you know what, never mind."

"Okay, now can I go back to the car? I don't want Meredith to think I had to poop. That's so not sexy."

"Yes, God." Amanda planted her hand over the clerk's entire face, playfully pushing her away. "Get out of here, you horndog."

Abandoned in the souvenir aisle, Amanda shook her head and started for the cashier again, but something caught her eye in the rotatable display rack by the end cap. It was cute, furry, and absolutely perfect. She stood there for a few seconds, debating whether or not she should—maybe it was too forward or just plain corny—until the big dopey grin on her face decided it for her. She grabbed the trinket before she could change her mind, and stepped up to the counter to pay.

The attendant, who had an unfortunate case of acne despite being well beyond his teens, looked away from the ancient portable television he was huddled in front of, spotted the customer, and sighed. With slothlike reflexes, he stood and began ringing up Amanda's purchases in silence. She bobbed her leg impatiently, tempted to reach over the counter and complete the transaction herself. But the scene unfolding on the TV screen snagged her attention before she got the chance: a platoon of police vehicles, lights all flashing out of sync like the world's worst rave, were scattered before a formidable-looking chainlink fence topped in barbwire. A man whom the caption identified as "M. Butler, Warden" was addressing a gaggle of press outside the fence.

"Hey," Amanda said, snapping her fingers eagerly and pointing to the TV as Sloth Man took at least five seconds to raise his head. "Hey, can you turn that up? Hurry, please."

Another five seconds went by while he shuffled over and twisted the volume dial to deafening proportions. "—escaped from Coxsackie Correctional Facility at 4:48PM this evening," screamed the warden. "Orion is serving multiple life sentences for murder. He is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous."

A mugshot filled the screen, featuring a middle-aged white guy with thin lips and a crew cut. His eyes were small and flinty, but crinkled at the corners by his slash of a smile. He looked hard—former military?—but slightly inflated, as if age or the confines of a cell had widened his once fit physique. Honestly, he looked pretty ordinary. And a lot like Amanda's uncle, Davy Rollins, come to think of it.

"Do not attempt to approach or subdue him," the warden continued, staring directly into the camera as he delivered the warning. "If you have any information of his whereabouts, contact—"

"You gonna pay or what?" Sloth Man interrupted, having the nerve to be impatient. He indicated the credit card reader, which displayed the total price of $9.86 in bright digital green.

Amanda scrounged through her pocket, pulled out a wadded ten, and tossed it on the counter. "Keep the change," she said, gathering her items and trotting for the exit.

"You're too kind."

Ignoring the muttered remark, Amanda paused halfway out the door and called, "You know how far that is from here, by any chance? Coxsackie."

"About twenty-five miles that way," said Sloth Man, gesturing in a vague direction, his post in front of the television already reclaimed. He could function at normal speed, after all.

The sky was full dark by the time she got back to the car, all thoughts of rude gas station employees long gone. Meredith had left the BMW running, and Amanda was relieved to hear that autoeroticism had given way to a track about love and acceptance. She settled into the cozy-warm backseat and proudly announced:

"I win."

"You win," Olivia echoed, fishing for an explanation. "Care to elaborate on that?"

"Did you play a scratch-off ticket?" Meredith asked, a note of excitement in her voice. "How much did you win?"

Cringing inwardly, Amanda gave a hasty shake of her head. Even in the dimly lit cabin, shadows shifting as the car glided out of the parking lot, she saw immediate disapproval flicker across Olivia's face. She hadn't placed a single bet in years; hadn't even gone near a deck of cards, though she'd been sorely tempted a few times after Esther's death, when she was desperate for any distraction from the dead girl's face permanently imprinted on her brain. (Dice were far too risky, with their rows of little black pips, like the lone snake eye she'd left in Esther's forehead.)

It was her own daughter's face that prevented her from slipping. She would never put Jesse through that mess, not after witnessing firsthand what a parent's gambling addiction could do to a family. For her daughter, Amanda Jo Rollins walked the straight and narrow. For her daughter . . . and for Olivia. It had taken so long to regain the lieutenant's trust after nearly throwing her career and her dignity away in an illegal gambling ring. To know all that hard work could be called into question over something as simple as a scratch-off ticket stung beyond words.

Reminding herself that Olivia had been raised by an alcoholic and probably learned to be suspicious of addicts at a very young age, Amanda spoke to Meredith but directed her reply to the woman beside her: "No, I don't play the lottery. Or gamble. At all. It's a waste of good money."

They had reached the last leg of their trip—nothing but a smattering of businesses too small to be called a town, and a deserted stretch of road with forest encroaching on either side—and what light was available came from the dashboard and the moon, a notoriously unreliable source. Still, Amanda was pretty sure Olivia smiled.

"Well, what'd you win, then?" Daphne prompted.

"Oh, the patrol cars that passed us. I was right about where they were going. Some con broke out of prison in Coxsackie."

"Seriously?" Daphne twisted around, the whites of her widened eyes more visible than any other feature.

"Oh my gosh, that's really close," Meredith commented, intrigued but not especially troubled.

Olivia, on the other hand, had a clear edge to her voice, which came out so softly the others didn't hear: "How close?"

"'Bout twenty-five miles," Amanda said, already wishing she'd kept her mouth shut. The lieutenant's track record with escapees was not stellar. Her second go-round with Lewis would be enough to put anyone off those particular types of offenders, who often had nothing left to lose.

Wanting to offer some comfort without undermining Olivia's authority—or her extraordinary courage—in front of their travel companions, Amanda touched her friend's arm and whispered, "They'll get him. Those guys always get caught."

Olivia nodded, expression indecipherable in the dark. "Mm-hmm."

"What's he in prison for?" Daphne asked, the nuances of the backseat lost on her.

"Uh, I dunno, murder or something." Amanda hoped the clerk would leave it at that, but she heard Daphne rustling up her cell phone and plinking words into a search engine.

After a few moments, Daphne huffed and let the screen go blank. "No Wi-Fi."

"It can be hard to get a signal up here," said Meredith, passing her own cell over for inspection. "Sometimes we have to go into town to make calls."

While the two women bemoaned their respective carriers' lack of coverage in the mountains, Amanda pulled out her phone as well, turning on the flashlight. She pointed the blinding flare at the seat between her leg and Olivia's, then brought forth the gift she'd been concealing at her opposite side. It felt like a cheap distraction now, and she still wondered if it might be going a bit overboard, but she also thought of the snow globe on the lieutenant's desk. She thought of the slow, secret smile Olivia wore whenever she held it.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Amanda said, placing the little stuffed animal inside its makeshift spotlight.

Olivia gazed down at the bear—a lifelike rendering with tufted brown fur, posable limbs trimmed in felt paw prints, and a cute cub face with a black velveteen nose—her eyes gradually crinkling at the corners, lips soon following suit. "For me?" she asked, a hand on her chest.

"Yep. Just in case you don't get to see me wrestle the real thing this weekend." Amanda grinned, bopping the bear lightly with her fist.

Coming to its rescue, Olivia set the plush toy in her lap and dug something out of her pocket. She held out her fist this time, an oversized ring on her thumb. When she unfurled the rest of her fingers, Amanda realized it was a key ring, and swinging from the chain was a miniature six-shooter. The tiny pewter gun looked like it came right out of a spaghetti western, albeit one with some very small cowboys.

"Since you left the real one at home," Olivia said, gesturing for Amanda's hand and sliding the key ring onto her index finger. "Can't have you showing up with a knife at a gunfight."

"Cute." Amanda chuckled, giving the nifty keychain a tap with her fingernail. It glinted like the real thing in the light from her cell phone, and she detected a liquid shift, accompanied by a faint sloshing noise, when it swayed.

Aiming the barrel outward, well away from both their hands, Olivia hooked a finger around the trigger and pulled. A flame, no bigger than the ones Jesse had blown out on her last birthday candles, leapt from the pinprick of a muzzle. It extinguished with a snap when Olivia released the trigger and blew a light puff across the barrel. "Happy Valentine's Day," she said, lips quirked into a sly grin.

"I love it," Amanda said with another delighted laugh. She picked up the lighter and began compulsively flicking it on and off. As a kid, she'd loved playing with her father's Zippo lighter, testing how fast she could flip open the lid, turn the wheel by its poky teeth, and ignite the fire inside.

Dean Rollins got a kick out of his towheaded daughter's fascination, tossing his head back and bellowing with laughter at the ceremony she made of fetching his Camels and lighting them for him. His little cigarette lady, he'd call her—"Just like the ones in the casinos, my Mandy girl"— and give her a pop on the rear, sending her off to play. When the lighters were almost empty, he'd give them to her and Kim for their duels: ten paces in the backyard, sundresses and flaxen hair twirling as they drew their shiny weapons—and  _fire_! Poor little Kimmie never could get hers lit in time.

Lord Almighty, it was a miracle they hadn't both grown up to be pyromaniacs.

"Where'd you get this?" she asked, still fiddling with the trigger.

"Back at the— okay, okay, enough, Rollins. Don't make me take it away from you already." Olivia batted at Amanda's hand, discouraging the incessant clicking. She rested her palm there, giving a firm pat that stayed any further fidgeting. "Back at the gas station."

"Huh. Must've missed you."

"You were pretty engrossed with your beverage selection."

"Oh, yeah." Amanda reached for the Mountain Dew, going warm on the floor next to her foot, and stowed the lighter away inside the shaft of her knee-high boot. At least she had a backup piece now. "Want some?" she offered, twisting off the soda cap and holding the bottle out to Olivia.

"Uh, no. I'll be bouncing off the walls tonight if I drink any of that."

"Me too," Amanda said, and took a long swig.

Twenty minutes later, she regretted the caffeine. It had conspired with the sugar from the Valentine's candy to create a heady buzz that left her shaky and unable to sit still. She let out a whoop that startled the other women—Olivia the most, quickly silencing Amanda with guilt—when Meredith announced that they had arrived at their destination.

From the outside, it looked like just another bank of looming black trees, but a narrow gravel lane had been carved out through the stand. It wound deep into the wood, which seemed to seal up behind them in the dark, like a zipper pulled shut on a tent flap. For one brief moment, the hair on Amanda's arms stood on end. She cast a furtive glance at her lieutenant, wondering if Olivia felt it too, but not daring to ask. No sense in spooking anyone else over what was most likely an aftershock from the Dew.

They had driven half a mile on a bumpy incline, only the crunch of stone beneath the tires to break the silence (Lady Gaga had sung herself out moments ago), when they came to a clearing and a sprawling log-cabin-style structure tucked thirty yards or so off the main path. Yellow light, buttery and inviting, filtered from the front picture window and each of the many rooms beyond, including a glass-encased sun porch that served as an offshoot to the picturesque homestead.

"Wow," Amanda said in a stunned croak. She leaned forward for a closer look. Behind the house, she could see nothing but dark forest sloping upward into the evening sky. It was as if the mountain itself had noticed an interloper—the man-made architecture that didn't belong—and swallowed it whole.

"Yay, the Clines are home," Meredith said, turning past the driveway that led up to the house. "I'll have stop over and say hello tomorrow."

"The Clines like their electricity, I take it," Daphne commented over her shoulder, stealing one last look at the impressive dwelling before it winked out of sight.

("Oh look, more trees," Olivia said dryly, as they rolled by the bare, knobby trunks standing sentinel on both sides of the BMW, thousands deep.)

"They're older. My folks' age." Meredith turned the brights back on, creeping along at a snail's pace as the path grew narrower, the curves sharper. "And they can afford it. My place is none too shabby, but it's a blip compared to theirs."

The blip, which finally came into view after an acre of beech trees and a security gate with a keypad, was roughly the size of Amanda's entire apartment complex. Built in the same style as the Clines', minus a few hundred square feet at best, it was a formidable sight out here in the middle of nowhere, cloaked in darkness. The gate gave a firm clang as it closed behind them.

"Here we go," Amanda said, echoing the immortal words of Gaga.

**. . .**


	4. Influence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks! Thought you might like a new chapter this lovely Friday. :) Btw, I'm not ignoring the update requests you guys post. I see them, and I try to keep them in mind while deciding when to update. I love that y'all want daily chapters, but there's only 12 of them, and the thought of posting them all in one go, after spending months with this story, just makes me sad. I'm not ready for it to be over that quick, lol. BUT! Chapter 4 & 5 were originally one long chapter, so I WILL try to post ch 5 within the next few days. Sound good? Good. And a couple more things: this chapter was written before the Rolivia "You assumed"/"Yeah, and you let me" debacle in ep 20x20. (Which hopefully will be addressed next season... I'm looking at you, Warren Leight...) So, there is a reference to something that will directly contradict that convo, but I left it in because I like it. Also, I'm not sure this chapter needs a **TRIGGER WARNING!** but I'll put one on it just in case, for brief mentions of child abuse/neglect, PTSD, and some mildish body horror. And on that note, I give you chapter 4 . . .

 

* * *

 "And I was thinking to myself  
This could be heaven or this could be hell"

\- Eagles, "Hotel California"

**. . .**

"Their eyes. Christ Almighty."

\- Sheriff Arnold Stander, Greene County

* * *

**CHAPTER 4:**  Influence

**. . .**

"You really don't have to do this, Rollins," Olivia repeated for the third or fourth time. She'd lost count as she tracked the blonde's movements, whisking to and fro from the bed to the massive antique wardrobe across the room. Made of solid oak and carved with intricate designs, the closet had an oddly feminine shape—curvaceous at the top, cinched waist, dainty feet. The scrollwork along the top even mimicked a flowing head of hair. She half expected the damn thing to lurch forward and start speaking at any moment.

Or maybe she had just let Noah and Matilda watch  _Beauty and the Beast_  one too many times.

Come to think of it, the more she studied the wardrobe, the more it began to resemble a coffin. She looked away as Amanda pitched a handful of rumpled shirts into one of the inner drawers. Focusing on her own suitcase and the neatly folded clothes inside, she began distributing them into a dresser on her side of the room. "Did you hear me?" she asked, smoothing out each article of clothing, though they weren't actually wrinkled. "I said you don't have to—"

"I heard you," came the muffled reply from somewhere in the depths of the wardrobe, now stocked with skinny jeans, flannel shirts, mismatched pajamas, and three different styles of boots. Oh, and a leather jacket; the only item she'd put on a hanger, and the one currently responsible for her faraway tone. "But I'm staying," she said, backing out of the closet space and dusting off her jeggings like she'd just busted a wily bronco. "This place gives me the heebie-jeebies. It's frickin' huge. I don't want to sleep alone. In separate rooms, I mean."

To make her point, Amanda padded over to the queen-sized bed adjacent to the identical one Olivia had chosen, and hopped backwards onto the thick mattress, landing rump-first on the squishy comforter. She scooted farther back, legs extended and socked feet paddling the air as she bounced, testing the firmness beneath her.

"Plus, this one's got a fireplace," she said, indicating the huge recess in the opposite wall. It was nearly tall enough to stand up in, the mantel just above Olivia's eye level. "You could have one helluva of a barbecue in that thing."

Olivia snorted, shaking her head at the way her detective's mind worked. If you cracked open Rollins' skull to examine her thoughts, you'd most likely find down-home learnin' (50%), food (30%), and Southern food (20%). It was maddening. But also quite charming. Against Olivia's better judgement, she decided to let the younger woman stay, instead of insisting on their own rooms. She knew full well that Amanda just wanted to keep watch over her—she'd felt those baby blues observing every move she had made since the Uber guy dropped her off in front of Meredith's townhouse—but she found, to her surprise, that she didn't mind. Not terribly, anyway.

And Amanda was right. The lodge, though filled with every modern convenience and luxury imaginable, had a desolate quality that Olivia didn't like. Perhaps it was the floor-to-ceiling window in the den that looked out over miles of pitch-black wilderness, not a single skyscraper or traffic jam in sight. In the city, she walked with swagger and intent. Out here, she felt very, very small. And the wild things that came out at night loved small prey.

"Speaking of," Amanda said, hesitating so long that Olivia looked up from the boot she was tugging off. "You didn't eat very much at dinner. You feeling okay?"

Pulling the other boot free, Olivia feigned interest in lining it up just so on the floor, next to its mate and the tennis shoes she'd positioned beside the dresser. She nudged it with her toe several times, then sighed and bent down to straighten it with her hands. When it still didn't look right, she gathered all four shoes and shoved them under the bed.

"Liv."

"I'm fine, Amanda. I didn't eat because I wasn't hungry. All that candy in the car." Olivia gestured dismissively with the moccasin she grabbed from her suitcase, then slipped her foot inside the cushy shearling lining. When the other was in place, she glanced around for something else to occupy her hands, her attention. She hated making eye contact with Amanda while she lied, especially over something so trivial as a poor appetite.

That her lack of interest in food had lasted for close to a year didn't matter, either. More often than not, she skipped meals altogether and pieced at whatever her stomach could handle that day. And though the fettuccine alfredo Meredith had whipped up for dinner smelled delicious—a suspicion confirmed by the hums of approval from Amanda and Daphne—the squirmy, weak-yellow noodles were too much for Olivia. She had managed a few bites, then spent the remainder of dinner pushing the sauce-drenched pasta around the plate with her fork.

"You didn't eat that much candy," Amanda countered lightly, stretching out on her side, head propped up on one hand, the other patting her belly. "I ate a lot more'n you, and I still wolfed that fettuccine down like there was no tomorrow."

Olivia's eyes flickered up to the bed and the pretty blonde lounging on it. She caught her gaze gliding over a shoulder, traveling down a slender length of thigh, and tore it away instantly, gripped by a sudden, thorough shame. "Yeah, well," she said, her voice so thin she had to clear her throat to get the rest out, "you're young. Wait till you're fifty-two. Wait till your hips are fifty-two."

"You kidding? If anything, you've lost weight recently. Not that you needed to. At all." Amanda pushed herself upright and swung her feet onto the floor. "It's just . . . I noticed. And with the not eating . . ." She winced slightly, as if it pained her to ask. But, of course, she did it anyway: "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Oh my God," Olivia said, head tipped back in a silent, humorless laugh. "Stop asking me that. I am so sick of that question. If anything finally drives me over the edge, it's going to be someone asking me if I'm okay. Probably you."

Amanda sighed, shoulders slumping forward in a posture that made her look like she was deflating. "Fine. Sorry." She shoved off the bed and breezed by Olivia, leaving an aquatic scent—crisp and clear water blue—in her wake. She really did smell like the ocean. "I'll get out of your hair. See you downstairs."

_Fuck._

"Wait. Rollins." Olivia captured Amanda's wrist as it swung backward. Her fingers curled around the delicate bones, thumb absently working at prominent tendons and a web of purplish veins. Briefly, she detected a pulse, steady and strong.

"I didn't mean that," she said, releasing the wrist when Amanda gazed back at it, watching the circular pattern being traced there. "I appreciate your concern. I'm just really bad at being looked after, I guess. Not something that comes naturally, you know?"

"Yeah," Amanda said, body still angled towards the doorway. She turned slowly, until she faced Olivia again, and slid both hands into her back pockets. She was shorter than usual without her boots on, and had to peer up from beneath the canopy of blonde bangs she always wore swept to the side. "Yeah, I get it. I'll try to lay off. You say you're okay, I believe you."

Olivia focused on the messy part in the detective's hair, only looking her in the eye after saying, "Thanks. I am."

Eager to change the subject, Olivia checked the empty hallway outside their open bedroom door—it was lit by a decorative silver platter loaded down with drippy candles in varying lengths, all of which guttered and cast strange shadows on the wall—and said, "Now, care to tell me why Meredith seems to think we're together?"

For a moment, Amanda's eyes flashed violet, as if the color spreading into her cheeks had spilled over and mixed with her irises. "You picked up on that, huh?"

"Well, she did try to give us the master bedroom. And when you were in the gas station, she told me what a cute couple we make, so yeah, I surmised."

"Oh, good Lord." Amanda smacked a hand across her forehead, then brought it down to her mouth, stifling a laugh that shook both shoulders. "I'm gonna kill Daphne, I swear to God. Apparently she thought you were too much competition, so she told Meredith we're sweethearts to keep her from being interested in you. I didn't find out about it myself until we were at the gas station. I'm really sorry. You want me to kill her? Feed her to a bear like we planned?"

"I don't think that'll be necessary," Olivia said, chuckling along with a lightness she didn't quite feel. She wanted to ask if it was such a bad thing, the idea of them as a couple, but she couldn't form the words. Her tongue felt heavy and sticky sweet from the lollipop she'd eaten in the car.

It was so much easier to flirt with a handful of heart candies and real life slipping away behind you.

"I suppose I should be flattered I'm considered such a hot ticket around here," she added, hooking her thumbs through her belt loops and fanning out her fingers to indicate the largely unoccupied lodge.

"That's pretty much everywhere." But whether Amanda's cheeks were still red from before or if the blush had risen anew, it was hard to tell. "You don't have to play along, though," she said quickly. "I told Daph I'd only go with it if you did. She can find another way to get into Meredith's pants if it makes you uncomfortable."

"It doesn't," Olivia said, and didn't need to look away this time. She gave an easy shrug. "It's not like we haven't done it before. Or have you already forgotten when we tried to conceive?"

"How could I ever forget something like that?" Amanda threw out a wink and a cute grin, dimple attached. "You were almost the mother of my first child."

Olivia couldn't say the same, but it was neither the time nor place to bring that up. That first and almost child. That regret from so long ago. It would have been close to thirty now, if she hadn't . . .

If she hadn't.

"Come on then, honeybunch," she said, pausing to nudge Amanda with her elbow as she strolled for the flickering hall. "Our undercover assignment awaits."

They were still giggling to themselves when they quit the plushly carpeted staircase and entered the kitchen, so brightly lit compared to the upstairs that it made Olivia squint. Meredith was there, filling four wine goblets the size of softballs from one of the cheap reds Olivia had picked up at Sunoco. Gas station wine was better than no wine—that was Olivia's philosophy, and Meredith, who had forgotten two bottles of Merlot on the counter at home, agreed. It had been worth the booze run just to find the silly lighter keychain for Amanda.

"There you girls are," Meredith said cheerily, tapping the cork back into the bottle with the flat of her palm. She had slipped a silky mint green kimono over her long sweater and dark leggings; her curls, butterscotch blonde and just about the prettiest mane of hair Olivia had ever seen, were swept up in a high pony, loose tendrils dancing around her shoulders. Definitely an actress. "Thought you got lost. Or otherwise engaged, wink wink."

"Looks like she caught us," Olivia said, taunting Amanda with a cuff on the back. She was enjoying the detective's newfound shade of pink far too much, but it was she who got caught off guard when an arm looped through hers, a blonde head resting on her shoulder.

"Can't get enough of this one," Amanda said in a low drawl that was pure whiskey and cigarettes.

It tickled Olivia's eardrums and kicked her heartbeat up a notch. She reminded herself it was just a game (right?), and the object of any game was to win. Burying her nose in the pale strands—sea spray soft and citrusy, like a bright slice of lime to cut the burn of tequila—she kissed the top of her friend's head. Amanda Rollins: midnight shots at a seaside bar.

"She's insatiable," Olivia said, lingering a bit longer than necessary. It might have been her imagination, but she could swear she felt goosebumps crop up on the patch of skin revealed by Amanda's bunched sleeve.

"So adorable." Meredith admired them for a moment, head tilted like she was observing a pair of kittens in a pet store window. Then she licked a drop of wine from the web of her thumb and lifted a glass in each hand. "Can I get you two to help carry these into the den? I'll grab the bottle and some board games, and be right in."

Accepting two glasses apiece, Olivia and Amanda made their way into the den, where Daphne had discovered a cache of vinyl records and a stereo system that looked like it belonged in a recording studio. It cast an alien blue glow from its interface of dials and buttons, which she twisted and jabbed haphazardly.

Expecting the volume to blare on at maximum force, Olivia set the wine on a side table and braced herself for the racket. But the sound that made her flinch and automatically reach for a weapon that wasn't at her hip came not from the speaker towers, with their eyeless-socket faces; it came from a distant room, possibly the kitchen, and it was a full-fledged scream of bloody murder. Daphne dropped the needle she was lowering onto the turntable, and it skidded across the LP with an awful screech, as if it were joining the distressed cry. Amanda set the crystal down so fast, red liquid sloshed onto the side table.

In the past, Olivia would have been the first to reach Meredith's side. Though never the fastest sprinter in her squad, she had the advantage of long, powerful limbs that took her several strides farther than the average runner. Until Rollins came along, bursting with youthful energy and a speed that rivaled even Elliot Stabler's, Olivia could always keep up. Tonight, she came in dead last, not even managing to outpace Daphne, whose legs were at least six inches shorter. She told herself it was the difference in age, the slippery moccasins on her feet, her unfamiliarity with the layout of the huge house. Anything but what it truly was:

For one brief moment, she had frozen. For one brief moment, the screams she heard weren't screams at all—they were echoes from a pit so dark and deep she didn't dare go exploring. There were horrors within that pit. There was madness.

By the time she caught her breath and returned to the present, the other women were huddled around an open doorway in the utility room, which also appeared to serve as a storage hub. The wire shelving that lined each wall was loaded down with enough games and puzzles to entertain for a lifetime. Noah would be in Heaven. Calling up an image of his sweet face, she made it her spotting point—a trick she used when the world was spinning out of control around her—and forced herself to listen while Meredith explained the problem.

Olivia could see it for herself, slick and oily dark at the bottom of the stairs where Meredith stood: the basement was flooded. Perhaps ankle deep, the water still spritzed from an overhead pipe, as if it were doing a spit take at the dumbfounded expressions on the four faces above.

"—smelled weird up there, so I checked down here and found this mess." Meredith gestured to the water a step below her slippered feet and let both hands drop against her thighs with a slap. "Pipe must have cracked during that freeze a couple weeks ago. No wonder I was barely getting any water pressure when I cooked dinner."

"Can you call someone?" Daphne asked, moving aside as Meredith mounted the stairs, switched the basement lights off, and closed the door.

"Yeah, my parents know a guy. He's worked on the pipes before. They do this sometimes. He probably won't get here till morning, though. Hope no one planned on a shower tonight." Meredith sighed, then took a closer look at the surrounding faces. Her amused smile faded when she landed on Olivia. "I'm sorry, that must have sounded horrible. I can be a little dramatic sometimes. Comes with the territory."

She didn't specify which territory: actor, lesbian, or being filthy rich. Or D, all of the above? Olivia pushed the thought aside as soon as it arose. She liked Meredith a lot. Daphne too. They were polar opposites of the hard-nosed and often jaded cops she was used to interacting with. There was an air of the untouched about them—they hadn't seen the things she'd seen, probably didn't even dream such evil existed—and that was something worth preserving. If a leaky basement was the most Meredith ever had to scream about, Olivia wouldn't hold it against her.

"Now I know how you got the role on  _American Horror Story_ ," she said, summoning the most genuine smile she could. She noted Amanda lagging behind the others, stealing sidelong glances at her, as they all returned to the den.

To the detective's credit, she didn't ask any questions, but when they made their seating arrangements, she passed up a comfy-looking armchair in favor of the loveseat cushion next to Olivia. While Meredith rang the plumber and the mellow guitar intro to "Hotel California" strummed through the speakers (Daphne had walked directly to the stereo first, picking up right where she left off), Amanda passed a glass of wine in Olivia's direction. She waited expectantly and when the glass trembled in the recipient's hand, she fixed a pointed look on Olivia, eyebrow raised.

"Bottoms up," said Olivia, and without waiting for Amanda to return the toast, or even pick up her drink, downed a quarter of the wine in a single draft.

It tasted like shit. As if the grapes had been grown in a vineyard behind the Sunoco station where she bought the stuff. And probably stomped by the pimply guy behind the counter. But right then, she didn't care if the wine had been fermented inside the guy's damn sneakers. It calmed her jangling nerves, and by the time she had half the glass empty, her hands weren't shaking anymore.

"Might wanna pace yourself," Amanda said quietly, behind the crystal bowl cradled in her palm, its stem suspended between her fingers. Her lips left an imprint of coral gloss on the brim when she took a sip. Features contorting, she thrust out her tongue and shook her head vigorously after she swallowed. "Jesus H., that's terrible."

"Looks to me like you're the one who can't hold her liquor. Darlin'." Though Olivia thought the pet name charming, especially when spoken with a subtle Georgia twang, she used it now as a challenge. It was a little cruel, a little manipulative. She knew how eager Rollins always was to prove herself, how drawn to anything resembling a bet. But Olivia sensed her own demons at the door, clawing and scraping to be let free. And demons liked their playmates. "Gets better the more you drink. Trust me, I learned from the best."

"Liv . . . "

"Don't."

In the background, dancing like she was already three sheets to the wind though she hadn't touched a drop, Daphne sang out, "We haven't had that spirit here since 1969!" She twirled her way into the sitting area, catching a glass as she passed, and plunked down in the armchair that dwarfed her already slight frame. Turning sideways in the chair, she dangled her Uggs over the armrest, back against the other, and regarded the occupants of the loveseat for several moments. A silent exchange that Olivia didn't quite understand seemed to be taking place between her detective and the grinning clerk.

As if responding to a question that hadn't been asked—at least not out loud—Daphne once again harmonized with the Eagles in her own birdlike soprano: "Such a lovely place . . . Such a lovely face . . ."

When Olivia looked to Amanda for some sort of clue what was happening, the blonde gulped a huge mouthful of wine and shuddered as it made its way down. Olivia nursed her drink, taking it a bit slower now that she could feel its warmth diffusing within like ink spilled onto a stark white page, and contemplated what she'd just witnessed. Before she reached any conclusions, their hostess returned from the next room and announced that the plumber would have to wait until there was a cell signal.

"How's the wine?" Meredith asked as she scooped hers up and sauntered over to the chair where Daphne lounged. She gave the younger woman's knee an affectionate squeeze, then settled onto the floor in front of her, kimono spread out aesthetically on the lush cream carpet.

After a long beat in which everyone waited for someone else to respond ("We are all just prisoners here, of our own device," replied the Eagles), Olivia finally admitted: "God-awful."

"Bad," Amanda agreed. "Like, pruno bad."

"What the hell is pruno?" Daphne asked, testing the liquid without waiting for an answer. It bulged in her cheeks as if she were going to spew it back into the goblet, but she forced it down when Meredith glanced around to see her reaction. "Oh God, is it embalming fluid?"

"Pretty close." Amanda snickered at her friend's repulsion. She gave the Merlot an experimental sniff and sampled it again. No tremors this time, and she was nearly caught up with Olivia. "It's prison wine. You mix fruit cocktail, bread, a shit ton of sugar, and a bunch of other stuff in a bag. Keep it warm. Strain it through a sock or something. And bam: pruno."

She raised her glass in salute and took another drink.

"And do we know this from experience, Detective?" Olivia asked, her smile surfacing with much more ease than before. She didn't have to force it at all, especially when it was aimed at Rollins.

"Nah,  _Orange is the New Black_." Amanda leaned her head back against the loveseat, inches from Olivia's shoulder, and batted her eyelashes. "But my granddaddy made his own hooch, so I learned a thing or two."

At the countrified response and the flirtatious delivery, Olivia felt her smile widen. During the handful of times they had imbibed together—drinking in earnest, not just having a snifter at dinner or a beer during the big game—she'd noticed that the blonde's accent thickened considerably, her inner coquette emerging from the shadows, the more alcohol she consumed. She wasn't there yet, but Rollins was well on the way to being in her cups.

And Olivia, whose touchy-feely side became much more pronounced with a little liquid courage to grease the wheels, wasn't far behind. She reached over and twitched the blonde fringe out of Amanda's eyes with a sweep of her finger. "Georgia peach," she murmured thoughtfully, and propped her elbow on the cushion behind Amanda's head. The bangs had a mind of their own, slipping back into place over one heavy-lidded blue eye. Yep, that pretty much summed her up.

Olivia gave a small hum of a laugh: "Hm."

"Come on, I had some in the kitchen. Well, just a dab, but it can't be that bad," said Meredith. With everyone watching intently, she took an ambitious pull at the burgundy liquid, clamped a hand over her mouth, and exhaled a wheezy cough.

"I take it all back," she said through a gap in her fingers. "This is what death tastes like."

They finished the bottle within the hour. Somewhere around the third serving, Meredith remembered the stack of games she had collected from the utility room, and the four of them spent a good ten minutes each on lobbying for their favorite selection: Meredith, a self-proclaimed traditionalist, wanted Monopoly and pouted when she received a round of boos; Olivia fought hard for Scrabble, professing to be a master, which no one refuted—or cared to help her prove; and Amanda almost won with a passionate speech about her love of Trivial Pursuit. But Daphne, whose original suggestion of Twister got shot down immediately, enticed them all with the unknown—a game in a black box, the title "Damned If You Do" scrawled across the lid in devilish-looking script.

Essentially it was just Truth or Dare, but with prompts written on cards, and a playing board and pawns for determining winners. By the time they were halfway through the second bottle of wine, no one could keep track of whose game piece belonged where, and they discarded the rules in favor of simply reading the cards or—more often than not—making up their own questions and challenges.

Team Justice, as the pair on the loveseat had dubbed themselves (the other two women were Team Drama), was up. Olivia had kicked off her moccasins ages ago, and now drew her feet up from the floor, tucking them beneath her as she prepared for whatever personal question Daphne would inevitably send her way. So far the clerk had learned that lying was her biggest pet peeve in a partner; that yes, she was ticklish, but woe to the poor soul who tried it, for he or she would pull back a bloody stump; and that chocolate-covered strawberries were her favorite aphrodisiac.

Absorbed in trying to hear what Team Drama whispered about over their current card, she almost didn't notice when Amanda's arm draped over her knees. To be fair, she had invaded the detective's half of the loveseat by sitting sideways, elbow still propped on the headrest, and her long legs taking up a significant amount of cushion. Amanda hadn't helped matters by sinking so deeply into the little sofa that she was practically part of the teal upholstery, her socked feet flat against the floor, legs angled apart in a most unladylike stance. Olivia considered giving her more space, but found that she liked the warm weight of that arm too much.

"Okay, Team J, you ready?" Daphne rubbed her hands together with the fiendish delight of a silent film villain. "Describe your first time with a woman," she said with gusto, holding up the card—she gave it a sharp flick—as proof that it actually read as such. Well, most of it.

"I added the last part," she confided in a loud whisper. It seemed to be directed at Amanda.

"Huh-uh." Olivia waggled her finger at the others when they looked immediately to her. She had a decent buzz going, but she wasn't that far gone yet. Besides, if they were being technical, she didn't have a first experience with a woman to describe. "I never kiss and tell."

"Ugh, goody two-shoes." Daphne grabbed an accent pillow from behind her back and tossed it at Olivia. It landed at Amanda's feet, one of which sent it sailing right back with typical perfect aim. The tiny clerk had to use both hands to block the satin missile from bouncing off her head.

"Looks like you're up, Mandy Lou," she said tauntingly, hugging the pillow to her chest as she leaned forward in anticipation. "Make it extra juicy."

Amanda grumbled like a cranky bear awakened from a peaceful slumber and slumped over, head almost resting fully in the lap beside her. She tipped backwards, until she was gazing at Olivia upside down, and implored, "Do I have to?"

For some reason, the other three women had come to the unspoken and unanimous decision that Olivia was ringleader. Even Meredith, who was only three years her junior, had taken to seeking her opinion on most topics. Did she mind listening to Fleetwood Mac next? Not at all. Was the heat on too high, or maybe too low? I'm comfortable. More wine? Absolutely.

She knew she should use her powers for good and not evil, but damned if she didn't want to hear Amanda's response to the prompt. "Well, you did use your last veto on that dare to simulate a sex act on the fruit of your choice, so . . . " She gave the blonde an apologetic pat on the cheek. "It's only fair."

"Okay, one: there's no fresh fruit available anyway, so that shouldn't count. And two: you're supposed to support your team members, not throw them to these rabid wolves." Amanda jerked a thumb in Team Drama's direction, but her smile belied any so-called feelings of betrayal. She hauled herself semi-upright, keeping Olivia's knees as an armrest, and shook the hair out of her face. "A'right, fine. But it ain't gonna be 'extra juicy,' because we were underage and y'all can kiss my ass."

" _Underage?_ " Daphne asked, sounding scandalized and intrigued at the same time. Perched cross-legged in the armchair, she began bouncing her knees up and down like an excited child waiting to open a present on Christmas morning. "How underage are we talking?"

At the angle Amanda was seated, Olivia only had a view of her profile. She found herself listening as avidly as Daphne—though with far less bouncing—and wishing Amanda would face her. Most of the time, she could read her detective like an open book. (Or at least, fancied she could.) But this new insight into the woman's past took her by surprise.

"'Bout fifteen? Me, anyhow. She was sixteen or seventeen, I think."

"Ooh, older woman," Meredith said, shimmying her shoulders. She reached back to poke her giggling girlfriend with an accusatory finger.

Ignoring the giddy pair, Amanda went on with her story in a lazy tone that held a tinge of nostalgia: "We were at this church summer camp thing my mom made me go to. She was one of the counselors. Cynthia Cooper. CeeCee. I knew 'er from youth group, but I thought she was kinda uppity. Her daddy was worship leader, so she thought she was hot shit. Treated me 'n Kimmie like trailer trash mostly . . .

"Anyway, bunch of us girls went skinny-dipping in the lake one night. CeeCee caught us, and we thought we were busted for sure. But she ended up jumping in with us. Turns out she had a wild streak. And a crush on me. And she was  _really_  cute . . . "

Amanda paused for so long, it seemed as though the story might end there. Olivia cleared her throat softly, trying to catch her friend's attention, but both eyes continued to gaze straight ahead, fervent and extravagantly blue.

"Well, one thing led to another. We snuck off to make out. They had this little prayer room set up in the mess hall where the sermons were held. That's where we—y'know." A faint smile touched the corner of Amanda's mouth. She pulled her lips back into a tighter grin and bunched up her shoulders. "I rocked her world, y'all. But the next mornin' she wouldn't even look at me. Acted like nothing happened, and by the time we went home, she was treating me like crap again. So I broke into the church and smashed her daddy's guitar. Told Mama I was an atheist and never went back to First Baptist of Loganville after that."

"Dude," said Daphne, after a lengthy silence. "That's harsh. Her, not you."

"Wow." Unsure what else to say, Olivia ruminated on the story and her last mouthful of wine. She told herself not to read too much into it. A couple of teenagers fooling around at summer camp did not a lesbian make. No one knew what the hell they wanted at that age. At fifteen, she was convinced she would marry Ralph Macchio, for God's sake. A year later, she'd gotten engaged to a man she didn't love, just for the chance to escape her mother's drunken and increasingly violent rages. She couldn't take one more slap, one more screaming match, one more night of keeping vigil lest Serena choke to death on her own vomit while passed out on the bathroom floor.

Amanda had been living through a similar hell in her teens, watching her mother get knocked around by an abusive husband. The summer camp fling with another girl probably served as a distraction from that world, an act of rebellion that assured the fifteen-year-old she was nothing like her mother. It's what Olivia would have done.

Then there was the other option. Maybe Amanda made the entire thing up to perpetuate the lie Daphne had told. Suddenly, pretending to be girlfriends didn't have quite the same appeal.

"Yeah. She's married to some preacher man from Valdosta now," Amanda said, gesturing widely with the glass she'd just drained dry. "Got a whole mess of kids. I think they're all missionaries or something. Still her favorite position, I guess."

"Spaghetti girls are the worst," Meredith said with a sympathetic frown. "But we've all been there. And you had gay sex in a church, so my queer lady hat goes off to you, my friend."

"Hear, hear." Daphne supplied a tinkly round of applause, tapping one of her many rings against the empty crystal at her side. "I haven't even done that, and I'm—"

She glanced down at the back of Meredith's head and concluded with an ambiguous: "Me."

"Well, forget CeeCee McChurchy," Meredith said. "You've done a million times better for yourself since then."

It took a moment for Olivia to realize the actress was referring to her. It must have occurred to Amanda as well, because she finally gazed in the intended direction. Her features, already soft and drowsy from the alcohol, had the indistinct quality of a dreamer—tranquil and hard to decipher.

"Yeah, I have," she said softly, her fingernail tracing idle designs on the pant leg of Olivia's jeans.

Strange how such a light touch, barely even noticeable beneath the layer of sturdy denim, could awaken so many sensations. Olivia's skin came alive, hypersensitive and thrumming, under that whisper of contact. Warmth pooled in her midsection, her turtleneck and jeans suddenly feeling much too constrictive. She told herself it was a combination of cheap wine (she really needed to lay off the stuff . . .) and the quivering, seductive glow—like a lover's breath nearing climax—of candlelight and moonbeams. The latter spilled through the plate glass wall to her left, leaving the entire room exposed to its age-old spell and the untamed night.

That had to be the reason she wanted to pull the blonde close, to lead her up the stairs, far away from the games and that gaping maw of a window, and then . . .

As if Amanda could read her thoughts and sensed they were about to cross a line, the detective inhaled loudly through her nose and forced her eyes wide, like she was waking from an unexpected nap. She sat forward and snatched a card from the pile that remained on the jacuzzi-sized coffee table in front of them.

"Name your worst phobia," she recited, then made a face at the bland suggestion. "Bonus points for confronting said fear. With witnesses."

"It doesn't really say that." Daphne squinted at the back of the card as if she might have x-ray vision. Finding she did not, she asked, "Does it?"

"No." Amanda displayed the card between her index and middle finger before whipping it neatly back onto the table with just the right amount of torque. Show-off. "But my way's more fun."

"Well, mine's pretty easy," said Meredith. She gestured to the window and the velvety black night that lay beyond. Her reflection—all of their reflections—looked back at them in the glass, a many-eyed creature that mirrored their every movement. "I'm afraid of the dark."

Daphne and Amanda spoke in unison: "Seriously?"

"Awww," said Olivia.

"I know it's dumb, but I never outgrew it." Meredith ducked her head in a sheepish and—with those tumbling golden curls—utterly beguiling manner. "It's not like I sleep with a nightlight or anything. I just hate being by myself someplace dark and unfamiliar. Freaks me out."

When the other three agreed that they saw her point and no one minded if she skipped the extra challenge, it was Daphne's turn. The clerk rattled off an assortment of phobias, including arachno- and acro-, and several more that she didn't know the technical terms for: bees, sharks, clowns, dentists, and zombies.

Olivia suppressed a smile at the last one, but Amanda made no attempt to hide her amusement. Head tossed back in merriment, she laughed until she was out of breath and could only gasp the word: "Z-z-zombies?"

"What? They're creepy as fuck. The way they move, all dead and staggery." Daphne gave a brief demonstration, contorting her upper body in grotesque and jerky motions. "And they eat brains. It's nasty."

"Zombies!" Amanda cackled all over again.

"I guess that rules out confronting your fear," Olivia said, raising her voice to be heard above the detective's guffawing. She was definitely cutting Rollins off after this. Although, it was nice to see her letting loose for a change. So much of their time together revolved around the grim and depressing side of life; they deserved a bout of uncontrollable laughter now and then.

"Okay, so what are the big, tough lady cops afraid of, hmm?" Daphne crossed her arms and tried to pull off a withering glare. Instead, with all four limbs primly folded against her, she resembled a genie on a flying carpet. A very tiny, disgruntled genie.

"Yeah, tell us," Meredith chimed in, clapping her hands for emphasis. She repeated the action with a more deliberate tempo, starting a chant of "tell us, tell us," to which Daphne quickly accompanied her.

Sobering until only an occasional hiccup of laughter remained, Amanda waved her hands for silence. "All right, hush up if you wanna hear it. 'Cause I'm only gonna say it once, and then we'll never speak of it again."

Everyone held her breath, including Olivia. She knew what inspired real fear in the detective (the same things she herself was frightened of: child predators, weakness, victimhood, her own DNA), but had yet to discover any irrational fears, beyond an aversion to Barry Manilow.

Chin practically against her chest, Amanda mumbled something that sounded like—

Olivia leaned in. "Did you say 'malls'?"

"I think she said 'balls,'" Meredith offered dubiously, face scrunched. "It sounded like balls."

"That explains a lot." Daphne flopped back in her chair, arms and legs popping free from their stiff little prison, and giggled wildly at her own joke.

"Dolls, okay?" Amanda said loudly, then slumped over as she had earlier, this time in the opposite direction. She buried her face against the loveseat armrest, muffling her shout in its cushion: "I'm afraid of dolls!"

"Ooh, is this your thing with Annabelle?" Olivia vaguely recalled the detective mentioning her hatred of the evil doll from the eponymous horror flick.

"Annabelle, Chucky, Raggedy Ann and Andy with their soulless, dead eyeholes." When Amanda turned her face enough to peer out from her hiding place, the upholstery weave was imprinted on her forehead. She grimaced deeply, bottom lip thrust forward. "I hate them all, Liv."

It took a great deal of self-control not to laugh, but Olivia had years of experience keeping her humor in check. One thing you didn't want to be as a female cop was too giggly or girlish—it was hard enough getting anyone to take you seriously, as is. Luckily, she'd never been particularly given to frivolity.

Then again, she wasn't often intoxicated, either.

"It's okay, sweetie, they're not here," she said, a grin peeking through as she circled Amanda's back with comforting strokes. She enjoyed babying the younger woman, she found. Not at all appropriate in the workplace, but fun while they were on vacation and hellbent on pushing the boundaries of fraternization between officers. "What do you do at home? Jesse has more dolls than Carisi has sisters."

She had been roped into playing beauty parlor with Jesse's endless stream of dolls on more than one occasion. In fact, anytime she stopped by the Rollins apartment, whether on business or leisure, she usually left covered in synthetic hair and dog fur. (It was the human hair, the fair and wavy strands that clung like vines, she found hardest to shake.)

"I avoid direct eye contact at all cost. And when Jesse's not looking, I cover them up." Amanda shivered, her vision out of focus, as if she were recalling a harrowing encounter with an especially vicious American Girl doll. "But I can still see them," she said in a haunted whisper.

"Is this a bad time to mention my mom's porcelain doll collection in the attic?" Meredith asked in an aside to Daphne, who was too incredulous to respond.

"Let me get this straight." The clerk leaned forward until her long dark braid dangled near Meredith's cheek. "The woman who took down the Manhattan Mangler is scared of Cabbage Patch Kids?"

Olivia's smile slipped. The casual mention of Calvin Arliss, even in jest, sliced through her like a  
( _razor_ )  
knife. Normally she was prepared for it; she had sixteen months of practice under her belt, of pretending her insides didn't turn to acid and every muscle in her body clench up at the mention of his name. Or that horrible alliterative title, which made him sound more like a trending hashtag on Twitter than what he really was: #psycho.

For weeks after the assault, she'd spoken about him  _ad nauseam_ , had been required to, what with IAB, the press, her squad, and Dr. Lindstrom breathing down her neck. Then she had fostered and eventually adopted his child, leading to further discourse about the man who had tried—and very nearly succeeded—to possess her, body and soul. It should have gotten easier with time, but all it had done was desensitize her to a character who lived in the mind of others (the "Mangler"), not the monster she had truly encountered.

It was that monster she'd fought to keep at bay every day since. Usually she won, but the wine and the laughter had lowered her defenses. She felt the migraine from before sizzling back to life, heavy and explosive as a powder keg, right in the center of her brain. Kaboom.

"Liv." Amanda was touching her arm.

"Huh?"

"Your turn."

"Oh, um . . . " After a moment of struggling to remember the question, Olivia pushed through the pain to answer thinly: "Birds."

"Birds," Daphne repeated. "Like pigeons, because they're gross and shit on everything? Or . . . ?"

"Just birds in general. With the flapping and pecking and that weird way they twist their heads around." Olivia forced a weak smile. "And the shitting."

"You never told me that," said Amanda, her hand still wrapped around Olivia's forearm. She squeezed it momentarily, then seemed to realize her mistake and released it.

Disappointed by the loss of contact, Olivia gave a sullen shrug. "It's not exactly something I advertise. And I'm not deathly afraid of them. I just don't like them. I saw the Hitchcock movie when I was five or six. Scared the hell out of me."

"Oh my God," Meredith said, clutching her chest with exaggerated shock. "Oh honey, no wonder you hate them. I didn't see  _The Birds_  until my twenties, and it still creeped me out. Who on earth let you watch it that young?"

"I watched it on my own while I was home alone."

That was a lie. She hadn't been alone—not really—although she might as well have been. Her mother was there, just unconscious in the next room after a three-day bender. Olivia remembered the time length vividly because there had been no food in the house the first two days. (Perhaps Serena, in her infinite motherly wisdom, had been setting the stage for three days of starvation at the hands of William Lewis, she thought wryly.)

On the third day, when the hunger pangs were so severe that Olivia knocked on a neighbor's door and asked for food, the teenage boy who answered gave her an entire box of strawberry Pop Tarts. She took them home and proceeded to eat four in a row, without stopping to heat them. She wasn't supposed to use the toaster by herself. She wasn't supposed to watch scary movies on TV, either; but somehow she came across an afternoon airing of  _The Birds_. Tippi Hedren was about to have her eyes pecked out by a flock of murderous fowl when Serena stumbled in from the bedroom and stood blinking in the hallway, as if she didn't recognize her own home. Her own daughter.

Olivia expected to be scolded for eating in front of the television, but her mother only wavered there, steadying herself on the archway as she stared and stared. Finally, she muttered something—she often talked to herself while drunk, but this was aimed at the pigtailed little girl sitting on the floor, surrounded by pastry crumbs—

"You're so different. No one else in my family looks like that. So dark. Those eyes . . . so dark."

Misunderstanding, Olivia switched on the lamp beside her.

"Stupid," Serena snorted as she wandered back to her room.

And as Olivia turned her attention back to the movie, mostly unfazed by the interaction (Mommy was always grumpy and saying strange things), she began to imagine her mother in Tippi Hedren's place, birds clawing at her face, gouging out her eyes with their sharp, relentless beaks. She wondered what it would look like after—her mother's bloody and staring face—two empty black holes where the eyes should be. Would the eyes pop when they came out, leaking red gunk like the strawberry filling in her half-eaten Pop Tart?

Horrified by her own thoughts, but unable to make them stop, Olivia turned off the television, swept up the crumbs as best she could, then vomited profusely in the kitchen trash. When she crawled into bed with her mother, Serena pulled her close, her small five-year-old body a perfect fit against the curled, trembling form that smelled of booze and days-old sweat. Mommy.

Olivia had detested birds ever since.

"Why were you home alone when you were five or six?" Daphne asked, sounding as dismayed as she did regarding Amanda's doll phobia.

"I don't remember," Olivia said, and massaged her forehead with the tips of her fingers.

"But—"

"It was the seventies, Daph." Amanda's hand returned, only now it came to rest on Olivia's knee (" _I've got you, honey," said a distant voice, twangy and panicked_ ) and the squeeze was intentional. "It was a different time, right?"

Casting a grateful look at her friend, Olivia nodded in agreement. A different time, indeed. She fell mostly silent after that, going through the motions of enjoying herself, and even getting a big laugh from the others when she named "gas station wine" as her number one vice, in response to the next card drawn. (Amanda surprised her by answering, "Cigarettes." Apparently she smoked as a teenager—"It was Georgia, y'all"—and, on very rare occasions, still indulged in a puff or two.)

While Olivia contemplated how best to extract herself from the group without making her discomfort too obvious, especially to the blonde beside her, the pot arrived on the scene. There was such little preamble, in fact, it almost passed for normal when Meredith retrieved the baggie from her Prada clutch and unraveled it to display the joints inside.

"Speaking of a puff or two," said the actress, shaking the bag like she was summoning cats with a package of Whiskas, instead of flapping a controlled substance in the face of two cops.

Daphne cocked her head to the side, eyes growing progressively wider as it dawned on her what the slender rolls of white paper contained. "Is that what I think it is?"

"If you think it's weed, then yes." Sweeping the kimono out behind her like a cape, Meredith resumed her seat on the floor and ran a finger along the Ziploc seal, which broke open with a little hiss. Within seconds, the room smelled as though a skunk had wandered into their midst.

Yep, definitely weed. Although, Olivia had to hand it to the woman—the joints were rolled with an expertise often lacking in the misshapen, clumpy tubes of cannabis she usually came across on the job. Those things looked like sad reject tampons; these were downright tidy, each one tipped with a neatly-fitted filter for easier handling.

"Jesus, Mere, there's police here." Daphne indicated the loveseat with a convulsive nod that resembled a neurological event. " _Ixnay_  on the  _ugsdray_ ," she muttered from the corner of her mouth.

"What, we were talking about vices. Well, this is mine. And besides, it's legal now. Right, Lieutenant?" Meredith had removed a joint from the trio inside the bag. She twirled it between her fingers as she looked to Olivia for confirmation.

She was correct. The bill legalizing recreational marijuana in New York had passed at the end of the previous year. The 420 in 2020 jokes were already burned out (haha) by New Year's. Though the issue polarized many of her colleagues, including two of her own squad members—Fin was a yea, Carisi a firm nay—Olivia hadn't really cared, one way or the other. She didn't use the stuff herself, but believed it should be available for medicinal purposes. As for recreational . . . she supposed it was no more harmful than the Merlot she drank to unwind, at least in moderation.

"Barely," she said. "But yes."

Meredith held the joint aloft, pinched between her forefingers. She glanced to and fro, from Olivia to Amanda, and back again. "Will it bother either of you if I smoke this?"

Exchanging slightly bemused looks, both women shook their heads. "Go for it," said Amanda, and while Meredith hunted for a lighter, she pulled a face that clearly translated as:  _Actresses._

"Of course, I plan to share," Meredith said distractedly, patting herself down and double-checking the contents of her patent leather clutch. "If I can find . . ."

"That won't be necessary," said Olivia.

"Yeah, I think I'm good," Amanda agreed.

"Aw, don't make me get high by myself. That's just pathetic." Meredith abandoned the search of her person and the clutch, walking over to the coffee table on her knees and tossing its surface with all the care of a feeb with a warrant. "Wait. Have you two never sparked up before?"

Daphne raised her hand. "I haven't."

Several moments passed as Olivia and Amanda waited for the other person to answer first. They had a captive audience, otherwise the question might have gone unanswered altogether. But one thing about Olivia: she was honest to a fault. Except when she wasn't.

"Once," she said grudgingly. "In college. But in my defense, it was the eighties and I was at a frat party. There were a lot worse things I could've been doing."

Like the entire Siena Saints basketball team, whom she later discovered had a bet to see which one could get into her pants fastest. The joke was on them—she'd slept with a lacrosse player that night.

"Oh, thank God." Amanda blew out a loud stream of air, as if she had been holding her breath. "Yeah, me too. Except more than once, and not just in college."

"Mandy Lou!" came a disillusioned cry.

"Sorry, Daph."

Gesturing with a fat, glossy fashion magazine that littered several subscription inserts onto the ground, Meredith said, "See? You've already popped your cherries, so it won't hurt. Might even help a little."

"How d'you figure?" Amanda asked, nudging Olivia and rolling her eyes to show she was just humoring their hostess.

"It's great for all sorts of problems. Aches and pains, insomnia, depression, loss of appetite. You get headaches, right?" Meredith waved a copy of Entertainment Weekly in Olivia's direction. "Bet it would clear those right up. It calms anxiety, too. And lots of other mental—"

Just as Olivia had no warning signs before a migraine, there was no preface for the anger that flared within her at the mention of mental illness, especially in correlation to her personal issues. "Maybe you should worry about your own problems," she snapped, the pressure finally exploding not in her head, but her tongue, "like why you need drugs to feel better. What makes you think I even have anxiety?"

She didn't realize her hands were balled into fists at her sides, until Amanda touched one of them.

"Liv."

 _Don't_ , she thought, pulling her hand free.

"I only meant . . . " Meredith sat back on her heels, the color leaving her cheeks, but not that hair—the paler she got, the more each root shone like spun gold. "I get terrible anxiety before I go on stage. I didn't mean to imply that you were— God, I'm sorry."

More than ever, Olivia wanted to sink into a hole and not come out till the weekend was over. Maybe longer. What had made her think she could pull off a normal, stress-free vacation with friends—and someone who had the potential for so much more—when she couldn't even last five minutes inside her own head? She needed to have a serious talk with Dr. Lindstrom about his advisory skills when she got home. But then, he couldn't be expected to properly counsel a patient who fed him half-truths or, with increasing frequency in recent months, mouthfuls of pure bullshit, now could he?

Three sets of blue eyes were gazing at her—two with confusion and a little fear, one with a mixture of sympathy and concern. Or perhaps it was good old-fashioned pity. The alcohol splashing around in her gut, and the pounding in her skull, made it difficult to discern the subtler nuances of expression. All she knew for sure was that they were looking at her the same way she used to look at her mother. The same way she caught her children looking at her sometimes, when she overreacted to a blaring car horn or lost her patience over something trivial. It was the way you looked at broken people.

All that blue concentrated on her was yet another reminder of her otherness. The shades might vary, the shape and depth of emotion, but nearly everyone she was closest to had the same common denominator of eye color: her mother, though usually bleary and bloodshot; Noah and Matilda, with hints of gray and green respectively—just like their birth parents; and Amanda, the keenest and brightest of the bunch. All that blue. Olivia was drowning in it.

Now she finally understood what her mother had been trying to tell her all those years ago. It wasn't the deep brown color of her eyes—what most people described as "soulful"—to which Serena had referred. It was some fundamental darkness inside Olivia herself.

So different. So dark . . .

Maybe what she needed was a little light.

( _stupid_ )

"No, it's okay. I'm—" Jesus Christ, she was so sick of constantly apologizing. She spun her finger in the air, indicating a desire to speed things along. "—just losing my buzz over here. You gonna light that thing, or what?"

**. . .**


	5. Into the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I didn't get this posted over the weekend for you guys, but hopefully it'll help brighten your Monday (or whenever you read it). As always, thank you for the reviews. I'm so glad you enjoyed chap 4. :) For those of you requesting drama and/or cuddles, hang in there. They're comin'. Mild **TRIGGER WARNING!** for a brief mention of rape in this chapter.

* * *

 "I hardly think a few birds are going to bring about the end of the world."

\- Mrs. Bundy,  _The Birds_

**. . .**

"The sonuvabitch is crazier'n a bedbug. I always said so. Good thing them Yanks got him."

\- Earl Bishop of Marietta, GA

* * *

**CHAPTER 5:**  Into the Woods

**. . .**

Of the many scenarios Amanda had imagined taking place over a weekend in the Catskills, blazing up a doobie with her boss hadn't been one of them. Yet here she was, digging the revolver keychain out of her pocket to do just that. On the one hand, she was glad for an excuse to remove the lighter, which had been jabbing into her hip for the past hour or two (Olivia's warm presence beside her, sometimes close enough to touch, had made her reluctant to move). On the other, she had a bad feeling about where this was going.

Something was definitely off with Olivia. There were glimpses of it during the drive up, but it had only gotten worse since arriving at the lodge. The place put Amanda on edge as well—it was too vast, too quiet. She didn't realize how used she'd become to the sounds of the city until she couldn't hear them anymore. But if she were a betting woman—and these days she gambled on nothing stronger than whether or not the last donut left at work was still edible—she'd put her money on a far worse culprit than the lodge.

At dinner, she tried to remember when she last saw Olivia eat a full meal, and found that she couldn't. But what the lieutenant lacked in appetite, she made up for in startle response; she'd been white as a sheet and trembling after that shriek Meredith let loose over the broken pipe. (Honestly, it had shaken Amanda too, but she was more disturbed by Olivia's unmistakable terror than the scream.) And then the wine. She knew how touchy Olivia could be on the subject of alcohol—about as touchy as Amanda herself when it came to domestic violence—so she hadn't pressed. Didn't want to be a nag or "uncool" in front of the woman she admired so deeply. But she also knew symptoms of rape trauma syndrome when she saw them: decreased appetite, hypervigilance, substance abuse, angry outbursts. The longer the evening went on, the more obvious they became.

And now, the pot.

 _You done fucked up, Mandy girl_ , she thought, hesitating with the lighter in her hand. She should put it away, take Olivia somewhere to talk. Somewhere they could both sober up a little.

The wine had hit Amanda harder than she anticipated, probably due to its low quality and Meredith's heavy-handed pouring. Olivia was handling it better, or at least hiding it better. If Amanda dragged her away now for a lecture about overdoing it, the lieutenant would probably laugh in her damn drunk face. Or, more likely, tell her to piss off. Normally, it was a risk she'd be willing to take, but nothing about the present situation was normal.

"Maybe we shouldn't—" She tried, cut short when Olivia plucked the lighter from her palm and delivered it to Meredith.

For what seemed like the hundredth time that night, Amanda cautioned: "Liv . . ."

The sharp look she received said it all:  _Don't._

"Just hope we don't have to do dole anytime soon," she muttered as she watched Meredith preparing the joint to be lit, first rotating the tip inside the flame to expose the cannabis underneath and ensure an even burn. The actress and Mary Jane were definitely old friends.

"And people think I'm uptight," Olivia said, gaze trained on the presentation before her. It might have been a trick of the candlelight or the booze, but her eyes looked unnaturally dark, the gold flecks cancelled out by solid black.

"Do dole?" Daphne abandoned the lonesome, oversized armchair in favor of sitting next to Meredith on the floor. She pulled her sweatshirt over her upraised knees, wrapping both arms around the resulting tent. "What's that?"

"Random drug testing," said Amanda. The likelihood that she or Olivia would get picked for dole, out of a police force almost 40,000 strong, was slim; the likelihood that weed from a single joint would still be in their systems by the time they got home, even slimmer. At least she'd made an effort.

The comment about being uptight had stung. She hated that Olivia knew just which buttons to push to rile her. No, she hated that she allowed herself to be riled—a surefire way to lead to some real first-class fuck-ups by Detective Amanda Rollins.

Such as sitting by while her boss got instructed how to inhale properly—"Draw it into your mouth first, then take a deep breath so it goes into your lungs"—to guarantee the best flavor and least amount of coughing. Meredith demonstrated each step as she spoke, taking two hits and expelling an impressive cloud of smoke into the air above. Amanda already felt a bit heady from the smell alone.

"I remember," Olivia said, pinching the joint carefully when it was offered. She held it for a moment, as if she had (thank the sweet Lord) changed her mind, but then brought it towards her lips.

"Wait." This time Amanda ignored the dirty look aimed at her. She reached over and swiped the cigarette with the ease of a streetwise pickpocket. "If you're going to be a stoner, Lieutenant, you have to follow the rules. Pass to the left," she said, and presented Daphne, seated at Meredith's left, with the joint.

That dropped Olivia to last place.

"Oh shit," Daphne said, her voice little more than a squeak. She stared at the smoldering tip that was inches from her face, momentarily going cross-eyed, and accepted the filtered end as if it were the gun she'd found earlier in the car. "I'm scared. What do I do, again?"

While Meredith slowly walked the clerk through each step, offering encouragement and a brisk pat on the back when Daphne began hacking uncontrollably, the pair on the loveseat had a wordless conversation. It started with a dissuasive look from Amanda that might have come across more chastising than she intended. Olivia bristled noticeably and snatched an empty candy dish from the coffee table, offering it over with a forceful thrust. An ashtray, Amanda realized, sighing as she took the dish in one hand and Olivia's wrist in the other. She expected it to be jerked away, but the lieutenant left it there, either completely oblivious to its presence or faking ignorance. And Olivia was anything but oblivious.

Well, apparently they were doing this. Amanda sighed for the second time, and turned her attention to the other two women, who were in the middle of a "shotgunning" lesson, which involved Daphne taking another hit and blowing the smoke into Meredith's mouth as the actress inhaled. Amanda wanted to tell them that technically was not shotgunning—the lit end should go directly into the mouth—but she didn't feel like explaining how she'd learned that detail. And besides, Daphne looked so proud of herself for not asphyxiating, Amanda didn't have the heart to say otherwise. Also, it was her turn.

She took the joint and gave it a practiced flick, dispelling the ashes into the candy dish. It had been four or five years since she touched a regular cigarette, and at least ten since her last hit of marijuana. She smoked almost exclusively when she gambled, but preparing her testimony against Deputy Chief Charles Patton—and finally coming to terms with what that slimy bastard had done to her—briefly turned her into a chain-smoking bundle of nerves. Come to think of it, that last joint, bummed off her sister's boyfriend Jeff Parker (may he burn in Hell for all eternity), had been a way to take the edge off shortly after the rape occurred.

It hadn't solved anything, but it did unravel the tight, hard knot in her belly and helped her forget the images—her fists pinned down by his, that sickening smile as he entered her, the goddamn ugly damask bedspread—that plagued her mind. At least for a little while. She could give that to Olivia now, that moment's peace; she could be there for her, to make sure the journey was a smooth one.

Amanda put the filter to her lips and drew a breath deep into her lungs, taking plenty of fresh oxygen with it. She held it for a moment, gaze trained on Olivia, then tilted her head back and exhaled towards the ceiling. It was potent stuff, already evident from the giggling and the red-rimmed eyes of Team Drama, but it went down pleasantly and Amanda gave a nod of approval. "Not bad," she said, and blew a few smoke rings with her second hit.

"Ooh, fancy," Meredith said.

Daphne watched in amazement as the rings expanded and disappeared overhead. "Oh my God, marijuana donuts. Marijuanuts. Teach me!"

"Can't. It's Liv's turn," said Amanda, handing the joint over with the tip facing up, the filter buttressed by her fingers. A part of her still hoped Olivia wouldn't take it, but there would be no more judgement if she did. "Puff, puff, pass. Them's the rules, kid."

After a slight hesitation, Olivia took the cigarette. She knew how to pinch it, but her hand moved slowly—and might have shaken a little, though it was hard to tell—and she mouthed something that looked like "fuck it" before her first tentative hit. "Wow," she said in throaty voice, coughing only once as she exhaled from the corner of her mouth. In typical Olivia fashion, she pulled it off with natural ease. "That's . . . really strong."

"High THC," Meredith stated, then burst into laughter at some imaginary joke. "You're gonna get so baked."

"I think you beat me to it." No signs of her previous anger in sight, Olivia smiled and took another drag on the filter, this one more confident.

It probably shouldn't have been so sexy, seeing her pick up the technique so quickly—the way she tipped her head towards the joint, going to it instead of letting it come to her; the smoke whirling behind her parted lips before she sucked it down; the casual release, almost discreet as it quit her mouth, which she turned aside politely. It shouldn't have been sexy, but God, it was.

The lieutenant made everything look easy. Just one of the many things Amanda admired most about her. That had to be why she felt such a stirring in her belly, watching Olivia maneuver the cigarette. (She was just sober enough to lie to herself, but not enough to feel guilty.)

"How come she didn't choke half to death?" Daphne asked in a petulant tone, chin resting on the neckline of her tautly stretched sweatshirt. She resembled a turtle, about to hide in her shell because the other turtles were better at smoking pot.

Amanda laughed at the thought, but her good humor ended when Meredith, already on her second puff, inched forward on her knees and crooked a finger at Olivia.

"Because Lieutenant Benson is one cool customer," said the actress, lifting her head to meet Olivia halfway. Their lips were close enough to touch, should either of them move the slightest bit forward—and for one terrible, fleeting moment, Amanda expected them to.

She finally realized what they were doing when Meredith deposited a sinuous ribbon of smoke into the lieutenant's mouth, then sat back with a satisfied grin while Olivia exhaled through her nostrils. That finally produced some coughing, and Amanda was glad of the distraction. Briefly, she'd considered ripping that flawless, warm honey hair straight out of Meredith's head.

"Shotgun to the right," Meredith said, with a sly wink in Amanda's direction.

Okay, maybe she wasn't so bad after all. By that line of reasoning, Olivia's next turn would put Amanda in the shotgun seat; the weed must be doing its job, because right now she wanted nothing more.

"I don't think I can do that," said Daphne, gazing warily at Olivia, who was fanning her eyes as they watered profusely between dry coughs. "Is she okay? Oh my God, what if we take her to the hospital and they make us do the dole thing? Wait, do they even have hospitals around here? I think we should call 911 and find—Oh my God! Our phones aren't working, what are we gonna do? I can't feel my face! Liv, can you feel your face?"

"I'm okay," Olivia croaked, waving off the concern.

But the damage was done: Daphne had reached full-on panic mode. While the others worked to calm her down, Amanda jogged to the kitchen, grabbed a Dasani and the remainder of her soda from the fridge, and trotted back. The bottled water she gave to Olivia, and the Dew—with its copious sugar levels to help boost blood sugar and curb the bad trip—went to Daphne.

"I hate Mountain Dew. It tastes like pee," Daphne lamented, but swapped the joint for the drink and guzzled it straight down.

"Thanks for the water." Olivia took a swig and gave one last muffled cough into her sleeve. She then used the edge of it to dry the moisture that still leaked from her bloodshot, drowsy-lidded eyes. Her cheeks and nose were a brilliant shade of pink from the alcohol, and she couldn't seem to stop sniffling. Eventually she gave up and used her sleeve again. Somehow, during the chaos of the past few minutes, her hair had taken on a windblown effect, despite a lack of breeze in the room.

She was kind of a mess, and Amanda found it dangerously appealing. Tough, authoritative Benson had her irrefutable charms, but disheveled and unguarded Liv was downright cute.

"Sure thing, boss," Amanda said, then took two hits from the joint in quick succession. She let out a plume of smoke, eyes fastened on the other woman as she sprinkled more ashes into the fluted glass dish.

"You don't have to call me boss out here, Amanda," Olivia said, her voice a bit gravelly. When she had the cigarette in her possession again, she studied the receding tip for so long, it appeared she'd forgotten what to do with it. A second later, it gleamed bright orange as she hit the opposite end robustly, putting an end to any doubts concerning lung capacity.

"I know." Amanda felt actual butterflies flitting around her insides—or maybe that was the pot?—as she waited to see what would become of the first puff. But it meandered into the air with all the rest, and she released the breath she'd been holding with a faint sigh. Her disappointment must have shown, because a knowing smile played at the lieutenant's lips.

"You just like a woman in charge, is that it?" Olivia shifted closer on the loveseat, one generously long leg extended to the floor, the other folded beneath her. She draped her arm across the backrest, the weight of it barely grazing Amanda's shoulders.

"Depends on the woman," Amanda said around the thickness in her throat. All at once, the room felt oppressively hot and sticky. She had the urge to flap the collar of her shirt, or strip down to the camisole underneath, but didn't want to be that obvious. She was from the Deep South; she knew how to sweat. "I've kinda got a thing for leggy brunettes."

"Good to know," Olivia murmured, the filter poised at her lips. And then: "Open up." She took another lengthy drag and glided her free hand up the back of Amanda's neck, urging her in until their faces were mere inches apart.

The sweet artificial smells of Olivia's coconut shampoo and cherry lollipop had been replaced with an earthy scent, like the freshly plowed fields Amanda used to walk past on her way to school, and then, years later, where she snuck out with friends to get bombed and make out.  _The more things change_ , she thought.

Fingernails scrubbed gently at the nape of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine, despite the perspiration under her arms, on her palms.  _Open up._

Amanda obeyed. The warm rush of air that entered her mouth via Olivia's was little more than secondhand smoke, but it affected her more strongly than any of the hits from the joint. She held it in her lungs till they ached as much as the rest of her, then blew it down and to the side to avoid moving away from the lieutenant's touch. A familiar energy surged in the sliver of space between them, although it had been ages since she felt such an attraction to anyone, let alone a woman. Let alone her boss. But there it was—and not as a result of Daphne's goading or the marijuana, though both probably helped break down the considerable barriers she'd spent several years building up against the truth:

She had feelings for Olivia Benson.

And they were about to kiss. She angled her head as Olivia did the same, their lips a hairsbreadth apart. Her eyes, and the brown ones across from her, were just drifting shut when a loud  _thwack_  against the huge picture window snapped them open again. Her reflexes were slowed down by the booze and the weed—slower'n molasses in January, as her mama would say—but she wrapped an arm instinctively around Olivia's shoulders when she turned to the window with an anxious look.

"What the hell was that?" Olivia asked.

"It's the police!" Daphne wailed from her spot on the floor, still curled in a fetal position inside her sweatshirt, head in Meredith's lap. "Hide the drugs!"

Meredith shushed the smaller woman and went on stroking her dark hair. "It was probably a bird. They fly into the glass sometimes. They see the reflection and think it's more sky."

"Ick." Olivia turned her back to the nighttime landscape that spanned the entire wall, her eyes momentarily seeking out Amanda's, something unreadable behind them. It was hard to see past the redness and dilated pupils. She tapped a small clump of excess ashes into the candy dish and handed the joint to Meredith, who had reached out and waggled her fingers.

"That's it for me, I think," Olivia added, executing a wide stretch and an even wider yawn. She raked the hair away from her forehead with an absent, repetitive motion and slouched bonelessly into the loveseat, shoulder to shoulder with its other occupant. Little by little, her head drooped against Amanda, as if she were wilting. "I'm gettin' a li'l . . . floaty over here."

"Same," Amanda agreed, letting her cheek rest against the soft brown hair that tickled it. Honestly, she was riding pretty high on her buzz—not smelling colors or anything, but feeling inexplicably light and happy—and could have gone another round or two before calling it quits. But having Olivia so close was better than any drug. She hoped that fucking bird had knocked itself stupid when it interrupted their near-kiss.

"Man, you guys are lightweights." Meredith laughed and gave them all a dismissive gesture before taking two last puffs. She carefully stubbed out the joint against the inside of her empty wine goblet, then placed both aside on the coffee table. "For later. In case you change your minds."

"I won't," moaned Daphne. "Is there an EpiPen for marijuana? I think I'm allergic."

Olivia giggled at the inquiry, and it occurred to Amanda what a rare sound that was. She'd heard the appreciative chuckle on many occasions, the sarcastic snort even more often, and the elusive blast of genuine, unbridled mirth—usually brought on by Fin's wit or Carisi's lack of it—far less than she would have liked. But giggling, such a girlish and playful sound, didn't seem to be part of the Lt. Benson repertoire. Until now.

Meredith had called it: Olivia was baked.

Finding the idea absolutely hilarious, Amanda joined in with the laughter that everyone but Daphne participated in for several minutes.

How they ended up traipsing through the woods after that, Amanda couldn't say exactly. It started with the bird. Daphne insisted that they check on the animal, to be sure it wasn't lying on the ground hurt and in need of medical assistance (she still hadn't given up her fixation on locating a hospital). Olivia took the most convincing—"This is how it starts, people. They lure you outside under false pretenses, meanwhile they're waiting to kill you with all their bird friends. It's like the mob. But birds"—and Amanda was more than willing to wait inside with her, but Team Drama requested "backup." In the end, all four women went because none of them wanted to be left alone.

As it turned out, the bird wasn't injured or a mafioso. The poor thing had fallen down dead after colliding with the window, and it now lay in the middle of the wraparound porch, a small heap of ruffled feathers. Even Olivia expressed sympathy for the creature—"I guess it was one of the good ones. At least it didn't suffer"—though she gave it an extra wide berth while the others gathered around to mourn. Meredith guessed it as a horned lark, based on its distinctive black and yellow markings, and explained that it got its name from the little black tufts of hair the males grew in summer, resembling devil horns. ("Aha!" Olivia exclaimed to no one in particular.)

"Probably got rousted from its nest by a bigger animal, panicked, and went full kamikaze into the glass," Meredith said, sounding like a medical examiner assessing a corpse on a cheesy cop show. "Usually don't see them out at night like this."

"Obviously more intelligent than some species." Olivia stamped her feet against the cold, making the light from her iPhone jiggle on the porch slats.

"We should give it a proper burial," said Daphne, who had knelt down next to the dead animal, her fear of zombies apparently not extending to members of the avian family. She gazed up at them, her glassy, red eyes glimmering in the flashlight beams from three cell phones, and burst into tears. "So its soul can find p-peace."

"Shit," Olivia sighed, but she slogged along with the rest of them as they followed Meredith into the woods. The actress had spent most of her vacation months at the lodge growing up, and assured them she knew just the spot for an impromptu funeral, right under a huge tree. Perfect for a little bird and only about ten or fifteen yards in. A small box and shovel were acquired along the way, and Amanda was presently standing graveside in a pair of Meredith's old wellies, freezing her ass off while Daphne eulogized the fallen lark.

It had all seemed like a logical sequence of events at the time.

Meredith's choice of burial ground would have been perfect, were it not for the thick, bumpy roots that spread out from the tree trunk like tentacles. They were so far-reaching, the hole had to be dug—no easy task itself in the stiff February dirt—several feet away, beside a low embankment that oversaw a shallow stream. Looming overhead, with several of the muscular tree branches as support, was the largest treehouse Amanda had ever seen. Custom built by Meredith's father, of course, when she was nine or ten. And hanging from a lower but no less sturdy branch was something Amanda's father also gave her at a young age (hers had been much more crudely rigged): a tire swing.

That's where Olivia had opted to wait out the interment, her compassion for the bird gone once they left the yard. She hadn't thrown caution to the wind completely: only one knee rested inside the center ring of the tire, her other leg keeping balance as she swayed to and fro, grasping the heavy rope in both hands. It creaked with each rocking motion, reminding Amanda of the obligatory noose, with its limp and dancing occupant, that populated nearly every scary movie she'd ever been subjected to. Chilled by the thought—and by the 40° wind that rattled the trees like dry bones and tugged at her leather jacket with needy fingers—she slipped away from the ceremony, joining Olivia by the swing.

"Need a push?" she asked, sidling up to the tree trunk. She leaned her shoulder against it casually, legs crossed at the ankle. Looking alluring while dressed in knee-high rubber boots and standing on uneven ground wasn't easy, but she was sure as hell going to try.

"Nah." Olivia had draped her upper body against the tire, arms left to dangle over the side. She looked up, her chin propped on the chunky rubber tread, and offered a sleepy smile. "I think my swinging days are over. Besides, forty-year-old rope, plus a decrepit old tree, both near an open body of water? Sounds like a recipe for disaster to me."

"Always so practical," Amanda said fondly, then kicked at one of the roots and flashed her own devilish grin. "Even when you're high as balls."

"Says the woman who just attended a bird funeral."

They stared each other down for a moment, neither willing to be the first to break, until a mournful sob from Daphne ("He was so young . . . probably!") made them both double up with laughter at the same time. Olivia extracted herself from the tire swing as it wavered out of control with her unsteady movements. She pushed it away, only for it to return and nudge her several abrupt steps forward.

"Oh my God," she said breathlessly, between some residual snickering. "I gotta get out of this damn jungle."

"City girl." Amanda edged around the knotted trunk until her back pressed against it, putting her directly in front of the lieutenant. With the roots beneath her, and Olivia wearing those flat-soled moccasins, she had the height advantage for once. She could think of some very fun ways to use it. "I grew up playing in places like this," she said, gesturing grandly to their surroundings. "Spent my formative years running around the Georgia wilderness. My mom said I was part wolf."

"Wolf, huh?" Olivia tipped her head, still managing to appear the taller of the two as she scrutinized Amanda from top to bottom. She picked her way carefully over the knotty ground, approaching at a slow and deliberate pace, until they stood almost toe to toe. She leaned a palm against the tree, not far from Amanda's shoulder. "I would've guessed you more fox . . . Or honey badger. Possibly chipmunk."

"Oh, come on. Chipmunk?" Amanda gave an offended huff, but couldn't conceal the grin that kept resurfacing of its own volition. Her dimple was getting an intense full body workout this evening. (Along with her pulse.) "Is that another dig at my size, or just your way of tellin' me I cram inordinate amounts of food into my gob?"

"Well, you've got that creepy little guy preserved on your desk back at the precinct. I thought maybe he was a relative of some sort."

"Mister Chips? He was a going away present from my old squad when I transferred. So I wouldn't forget my roots." Amanda rolled her eyes at the memory of her Atlanta SVU buddies parading the taxidermy chipmunk through the squad room, singing the  _Chip 'n Dale: Rescue Rangers_  theme song—those of them young enough to know the lyrics—and telling her to watch out for New York City sewer rats. Despite how it ended, there had been some good times with the Georgia boys.

But nothing compared to Manhattan, she thought, gaze traveling down to the lieutenant's lips, her breath just visible in the cool night air.

Olivia bent her arm gradually at the elbow, drawing nearer with each exhale. "See? Part chipmunk," she said, voice a low rumble in Amanda's ear as their cheeks grazed softly against each other. She nuzzled aside the blonde locks that were caught under the collar of the leather jacket, her mouth leaving a trail of heat as it skimmed over Amanda's jawline and on down the neck, not touching, but God, so deliciously, maddeningly close.

Amanda sank her fingers into the lapels of Olivia's jacket and pulled the warm, womanly figure underneath flush with hers. She couldn't tell whose heart was beating faster, they were so in sync. "Shut up, city girl," she murmured, their breath mingling in the inch of space between. Now less . . . even less . . . lesser still . . .

"Did you guys seriously ditch us to hide out and play kissy face? How rude. And suuuper gay." It was Daphne, and though she was out of Amanda's view, the gloating was evident in her voice.

Olivia dropped her forehead to Amanda's shoulder and made a noise that was part whimper, part growl of frustration. "Okay, you have my full permission to kill her now," she said, the words muffled by the supple leather her face was buried against.

"Great. I know just where to put the body." Amanda shot a murderous look at the two women who stood by the bank of the stream, giggling inanely (that was only cute when Olivia did it) and shining their flashlights towards the tree like a couple of unis raiding a make-out spot. She flipped them off and reluctantly separated from Olivia as they both righted themselves.

The trek back to the lodge wasn't nearly as awkward as Amanda expected. That was one good thing about getting caught trying to put the moves on your boss while you were both smashed, she supposed—regrets were for the sober. They took the long way, following alongside the trickling stream in pairs, Team Drama in the lead, holding hands and stealing not-so-subtle glances behind them.

"I feel like I'm in middle school again," Amanda said loudly enough for the group and half the forest to hear.

The announcement was greeted with more laughter from the two chuckleheads, and a smirky eye roll from Olivia, whose hands were jammed deep inside her jacket pockets, shoulders bunched up around her ears. Wordlessly, Amanda snaked an arm through the lieutenant's, offering what warmth she could. They walked that way in silence, too busy casting furtive looks and smiles at each other to notice when their friends stopped short in front of them. Olivia glanced up just in time to rescue them from a head-on collision.

"That's so weird," Meredith said, peering through the trees on the opposite bank, some elephantine in size, some as spindly and towering as Wellsian tripods. An aura of yellow light emanated from the house several hundred yards off, winking between the branches. "The Clines are still up. I can't believe they're awake this late. We should go over and say hi."

"Or maybe we don't show up on the doorstep of a couple senior citizens at 11:30PM. While high." Amanda snagged the sash of Meredith's kimono as she prepared to cross the stream via a path of questionably distanced stepping stones.

"Oh. Right. Good call." Meredith clapped her on the back, appreciative of the quick save. Pointing at the stones with the garden shovel she'd used to dig the bird's grave, she added, "Probably would've ended up going for a midnight swim, anyway."

Later, when Amanda looked back on that evening and what transpired thereafter—the astonishingly good and the unspeakably horrific—she would remember the statement as deeply prophetic, like so many of the day's events proved to be. But as she pitched backwards into the stream with a curt little splash, body fully immersed in the frigid mountain water, she could only think:

_Fuuuucck._

This time it started with a spider. Amanda was not a fan of the eight-legged creepy-crawlies herself, nor were any of her companions, as she discovered when they all walked straight into a spiderweb the size of a peewee soccer net. It spanned between two trees, camouflaged by darkness and drug-altered perception, and as they skirted the largest trunk in unison, the wispy strands—soft and sticky as cotton candy—consumed them all. Olivia made it out first, smacking the webbing off her sleeves and out of her hair with minimal success. "Son of a bitch," she said emphatically, as if insults and vehemence would hasten removal.

Meredith's hands also went directly to her hair, shaking it upside down like she was performing the role of "Vigorous Shampooer." An Oscar-worthy performance, to be sure, and one which Daphne, the self-proclaimed arachnophobe of the group, missed entirely. While Amanda unzipped her jacket and flapped the leather panels with almost enough zeal to take flight, the clerk was screaming, "Is it on me? Get it off! GET IT OFF!" and flailing wildly. No more jokes about the woman's petite stature, Amanda vowed, because when Daphne plowed into her, it was like getting tackled by a defensive lineman.

"Jesus, Rollins, are you okay?" Olivia asked, forehead crinkled in concern as she looked down from the bank. Without waiting for an answer, she waded into the stream, soaking her jeans up to the knees, and held out a hand to Amanda.

"Yeah, I'm just . . . wet," Amanda said, struggling to sit up. The current flowed around her with no more strength than a spa bath—minus the warmth and relaxation—but the rocky bed beneath was a literal pain in the ass. Despite its shallow depth, the water had broken her fall and prevented any serious injury. The only casualties seemed to be her hair and clothing, which were drenched and clinging, and her buzz, which had all but vanished from the cold shock of submersion. Her pride too.

"I can see that. You wanna bask for a while, or can we get the hell outta here?" Olivia wiggled her fingers, and when Amanda grabbed them, the lieutenant boosted her up with another hand under the elbow. Underestimating the weight of a waterlogged one hundred and twenty-five pound blonde, Olivia almost lost her grip and toppled them both into the stream. They teetered precariously for a second, but remained upright and supporting each other as they trudged to dry land.

"Amanda honey, I am so sorry," Daphne said, and spent the next few minutes repeating it while Amanda, shivering and holding onto Olivia's arm for balance, removed one rubber boot at a time and dumped a small waterfall from each. The clerk sounded like one of the records she'd been so entranced with earlier, stuck on the same scratch until outside forces intervened.

"It's okay, Daph," Amanda said through chattering teeth. She peeled off her leather jacket, the heaviest of her clothing and the most water-retentive. Not counting her socks, she thought, cringing as they squished inside her wellies. "S-stop apologizing already. Let's j-just get inside."

"Here." Olivia shrugged out of her own jacket and draped it over Amanda's shoulders, then put an arm around her waist to guide her forward.

"Now you'll be c-c-cold." Amanda resisted, but her rapidly numbing limbs were no match for the lieutenant. She fell into step beside her, struggling to keep up with the long strides that carried them over the rugged forest floor with sure-footed ease, even in sopping wet moccasins. The city girl could handle herself outdoors, after all.

"Too late. C'mon, the faster we get in, the faster we can both warm up."

In no mood to argue, Amanda lowered her head against the arctic blast of air they met with upon exiting the trees that outlined the perimeter of the lodge. Before their ill-advised excursion, Meredith had used a rock to prop open the door in the privacy fence—a rather imposing wall of wood paneling that enclosed the entire lodge—because the handle was single-sided. Now, Olivia and Amanda slipped through and hurried onto the porch while their friends closed and locked the door behind them.

Once inside, Olivia resumed command of the little group: she confiscated Amanda's jacket first, hanging it to drip dry on a decorative antler hook in the mudroom; instructing Amanda to remove the wellies and squishy socks, she folded the later over two more hooks and propped the boots upside down on the mat, next to several other pairs in various stages of decomp—muddy, muddier, muddiest; she instructed Meredith to lock the front door, remember to blow out all the candles, and for the love of God, feed Daphne (she had "the munchies") and put her to bed; and when both women objected, fluttering around Amanda like hummingbirds seeking nectar, Olivia shooed them away—firmly but kindly—and perp-walked Amanda to the stairs.

It was almost worth an impromptu dip in glacial waters and the risk of hypothermia just to see her lieutenant in action.

"I'll take good care of her," Olivia said over her shoulder. "You two get some rest. We've all had enough excitement for one night. See you in the morning."

They cleared the steps in silence, Amanda shuddering from head to toe while Olivia chafed a hand against her arm and back. She didn't have to play it up for sympathy—she'd never been so cold in her life, not even during the ice baths her frantic mother had forced her into when she spiked a fever as a child.

Beth Anne Rollins was a firm believer in every antiquated home remedy, a true scholar of every old wives' tale handed down to her by actual old wives of The South. Whiskey on a teething baby's gums?  _Calmed both my girls right down._  Don't swim for thirty minutes after eating?  _Remember your cousin Buddy? No? That's because he drowned right after a cookout._ Feed a cold, starve a fever?  _You won't die of starvation after one day, Mandy._  (Unlike every other child of the eighties, Amanda grew up hiding the thermometer instead of holding it to a light bulb when her mother's back was turned.  _E.T._  had never met Beth Anne.)

It infuriated Amanda when she entered grade school and discovered that most of her mother's rules and regulations were complete crap. Not only was Dean Rollins' wife fooling herself, she'd dragged her daughters into it with her. Amanda had spent just about every day since rebelling against any advice—medical or otherwise—from her mother and ascribing to her father's motto of "rub some dirt on it."

"Sorry about your sh-shoes," she said to Olivia, eager for an excuse to stop reminiscing. The lieutenant had shed her soggy and likely destroyed moccasins in the mudroom, alongside the wellies, and was padding down the hallway barefoot and dripping with each step. "And your jeans. And your j-j-jacket."

"They'll dry. I'm more worried about you right now. You need to get out of these wet clothes." Olivia pushed open the door to their room and fumbled around for the light switch. It took a few tries, but she finally flipped it on and shuttled Amanda straight to the adjoining bathroom. "Go on and get dried off. I can find you something to wear. You want pajamas?"

"I can just get some—"

Amanda turned towards the wardrobe, but a long, unyielding arm blocked her path. Two hands clamped down gently on either of her shoulders, steering her back towards the bathroom.

"Go, Rollins."

Another protest rose within her—little Mandy, who railed against any form of mothering, was still alive and well—but she pushed it aside and allowed herself to be escorted into the bathroom, half-expecting one of her father's swats on the rear as incentive. Instead, the light came on and the door closed behind her. And damned if the bedraggled woman in the mirror wasn't wearing a faint smile on her blue-tinged lips.

**. . .**


	6. Id

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little birdie told me you guys might like a new chapter to read this weekend. Hope you find this one to your liking. :) Mild **TRIGGER WARNING!** for references to sexual assault.

 

* * *

 "Sometimes it's like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dull  
And cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my skull  
At night, I wake up with the sheets soakin' wet  
And a freight train runnin' through the middle of my head  
Only you can cool my desire"

\- Bruce Springsteen, "I'm on Fire"

* * *

**CHAPTER 6:**  Id

**. . .**

Before getting to work, Olivia pulled her hair back in a messy ponytail and took a deep breath, orienting herself in the middle of the apartment-sized bedroom. She had forgotten how lethargic pot made her feel. Easy to do when you hadn't smoked it for thirty odd years. And she wasn't exactly twenty anymore. Why she'd thought she could act that way and not suffer the consequences, she didn't quite recall. It had something to do with the wine and the migraine—which had dwindled to a dull but tolerable headache—and with Meredith's comment about mental illness, and Amanda's obvious disapproval . . .

 _Don't forget the pathetic need to get out of your own head_ , she thought, and exhaled the breath she'd inadvertently been holding.

It didn't work, of course. The monsters were still there, just confined to the corners of her mind for a while. They would creep out eventually, stalking her like a jungle cat crouched behind its prey. She was afraid to find out what would happen when they finally pounced. Would she snap back to reality and find herself clutching another iron rod, bits of bone and hair stuck to the blood on its tip? Would she pull her gun on an innocent civilian and not manage to release the trigger at the very last second? Or maybe she would just pump her body so full of poisons that she forgot to feed her children for three days in a row?

She drew the line at that last thought. That was a place she would never go. To even entertain the idea went against every fiber of her being, every driving impulse that made her Olivia Margaret Benson. It's how she knew that, despite the evil she'd encountered time and again, she still had a soul: because that's how deep went her fear of ever being like her mother.

Thankfully, the cold stream hadn't cleared her head enough to dwell too long on such dark introspection. Nor was she trashed—a state she'd only reached a handful of times (twice against her will) in her life, mostly in college—at least not enough to be standing stock-still, gazing off into space and questioning her existence.

She forced her legs to get moving and they carried her to the dresser first, where she pulled her and Amanda's cell phones from her back pockets. The detective's still had moss on it from landing face down beside the stream, flashlight pointed into the night sky like the Bat Signal. Olivia wiped it off with the edge of her sleeve and placed both phones on the dresser, then quickly shucked off her wet jeans. As she draped them over a pearl-colored chair shaped like a seashell, Matilda's butterfly teether dropped onto the seat cushion with a soft thud. She had forgotten about slipping it into her pocket during the drive there. Absently, she picked it up, squeezing it rhythmically into the palm of her hand. The same tempo as a heartbeat.

When her jeans were replaced with sweats, and her turtleneck with an old but comfortable Nike hoodie, she slid the pink teether into the front pocket of her sweatshirt and grabbed some socks from the drawer. Luckily, she had brought a couple of thick pairs, in case the mild February temperatures took a dive. Or in case Amanda decided to do the same, she amended, smiling.

After patting her feet dry with the edge of the bedspread ( _sorry, Meredith_ ) and gliding the socks over what felt like two foot-shaped ice blocks, she hurried to the  
( _casket_ )  
wardrobe and scrounged up a set of red pajamas from the wadded mass that was Amanda's clothing. She hesitated reaching into the underwear drawer, but finally grabbed the dark pair on top and stuffed them between the brightly colored fleece separates. She was searching for socks when a very loud, very perturbed oath—"Fuckin' hell!"—sounded from inside the bathroom.

"What's wrong?" Olivia asked, immediately at the door, hand on the knob.

Before she could turn it, Amanda opened the door just wide enough for her wet head and one bare, ivory shoulder to poke out. She looked about as thrilled as a house cat getting a flea bath. At least homicidal rage seemed to be restoring color to her cheeks.

"I was going to take a hot shower. Thought it'd warm me up and get this shitty crick water out of my hair." Amanda closed her eyes and let her forehead fall against the door with a solid thunk. "Ow. But I forgot about the damn broken pipes."

"Oh God, I forgot about that too." For a moment, Olivia frowned down at the pajamas in her hands. From the corner of her eye she noticed something across the room and looked back up again, handing the clothing through the crack in the door. "Well, here, get dressed. I've got an idea."

"Make it a warm one," Amanda grumbled before she closed the door.

 _I'll do my best_ , Olivia thought, heading for the gigantic cobblestone fireplace that overlooked the beds against the opposite wall. She knew precious little about starting a fire, beyond what she'd learned watching Ed Tucker light the one in his living room. Trying to learn how to build one from scratch had been a hopeless cause during her time as Persephone James; they had practically laughed her right out of the state of Oregon over her pitiful little pyres. (If anything would have blown her cover back then, it was her complete incompetence at outdoor skills.) But all the necessary accoutrements for a cozy, prepackaged fire appeared to be in attendance, including a stack of Duraflame firelogs next to the wrought iron rack filled with genuine wood. In the fireplace grate, she crisscrossed a few real logs with an artificial one, before deciding to add a second—the hearth was large enough to withstand the blaze, and Meredith had told them to make themselves right at home. This home required a big fire.

She had enough experience to remember to open the damper first ( _thanks, Ed_ ), but would have to take it on faith that the flue was as clean as the rest of the structure. Fingers crossed, she lit the elongated nozzle of a lighter from atop the mantle and held it to the uppermost firelog. After several agonizing seconds waving the nozzle back and forth without success, the wrapper finally caught, and soon the logs sprang to life with a troupe of tiny dancing flames. She raised her fists triumphantly as the conga line became a full-on crackling rave.

"Take that, Oregon," she said, and closed the fireplace screen. Her quest for Amanda's sock drawer had been a failure, so she went back for a pair of her own. Along the way, she caught a glimpse of the dark tunnel of a hallway—the candles had long since burned themselves out—that lay beyond the bedroom, and quickly pushed the partially open door shut with her foot.

Without stopping to consider why, she turned off the overhead dome light and went to the floor lamp situated between the beds. Extending from a single, slender base were three individual shades resembling paper lanterns, and she randomly tugged on each pull chain until she reached a satisfactory balance of illumination between the lamp and the fireplace. Not so bright as to be unforgiving, but not so dim as to be suggestive. Just right for a tired, mildly intoxicated fifty-two-year-old who didn't know where the hell any of this was going.

Okay, maybe she had a very  _small_  inkling. After all, she had almost kissed Amanda Rollins twice tonight. Had wanted to so badly she quaked on the inside. It was unlike anything she'd ever felt before. She'd experienced strong attractions towards men, yes, but in some ways it was formulaic, perfunctory even. More often than not, she lost interest along the way. (The only man she'd ever thought she couldn't live without was Elliot, and he had proved her wrong nearly ten years ago.) Amanda was new and exciting, and she kindled something within Olivia not unlike the flames that now engulfed the fireplace.

The best—and most intimidating—part was that Amanda seemed to feel it too. Olivia might be unfamiliar with pursuing another woman, but she knew desire when she saw it. She'd seen it in its many forms, good and bad, over the years, often directed at her and often unreciprocated. And she had seen it several times this evening, turning Amanda's eyes a deep horizon blue.

Moments later, those same eyes were peering out at her from underneath a bath towel that Amanda had fashioned into a comically high turban. She no longer looked apoplectic, although she held a comb in one hand, slapping it rather forcefully into her other palm. Her pink toenails were a stark contrast to her bloodless feet. "Got a signal yet?" she asked, a tremor still in her voice and her slender frame.

Olivia put her cell phone aside and got up from the edge of her bed to hand Amanda the socks she'd left out. "Nope. Warm yet?"

"Nope." Amanda glanced questioningly at the socks, then put them on anyway. "Thanks. Guess I should've brought more than one pair, after all."

Deciding not to ask how one pair could possibly be sufficient for a weekend—she didn't want to nitpick—Olivia gestured to the fire instead. "That should help some, too."

"Oh my Lord," Amanda said when she turned in the indicated direction. "You made a fire. Look at you go, city girl."

Olivia couldn't help but smile at her new nickname. She was going to have to think one up for the detective. "Chipmunk" didn't have quite the same ring to it, although suitable in terms of cuteness. Which was on full display at the moment, as Amanda made a beeline for the fireplace and began warming various body parts in front of it, including her backside. When that was nice and toasty, she faced the fire again and alternated holding her hands towards it and blowing into them.

"I think my blood is frozen," she said, rubbing her arms vigorously, "'cause I kinda just want to curl up in there for the rest of the night. Or at least till I thaw."

"Well, don't do that." Olivia chewed at her bottom lip, contemplating the chair next to the dresser. Although an elegant piece of furniture—not counting the wet jeans slung over its back—it was designed more for decoration than comfort. Plus, it was far too heavy to drag from one side of the expansive bedroom to the other. She eyed the bedspread, a plush white cloud so thick with down it sunk several inches when pressed upon, and said, "Hang on."

A sherpa throw the color of morning fog lay folded at the foot of the bed; she tossed it onto one shoulder and gathered the bulky comforter into her arms, toting both over to the fireplace and spreading the larger blanket in front of the hearth. After making sure the edge was a safe distance from any errant embers or soot, she motioned for Amanda to sit, then unfurled the throw and draped it around the blonde's shoulders.

"Where you goin'?" Amanda asked when Olivia started back to the bed.

"Relax," Olivia said with a light laugh, as she grabbed the two plump pillows that rested against the headboard. One in each arm, she returned to the cozy little island she'd constructed and dropped a pillow behind Amanda. She propped the other up at her own back as she settled onto the floor beside her friend. "Okay, now I'm all yours."

It had slipped out before she realized how it sounded, and she mentally cursed her sluggish brain for not keeping up. While the wine had been quick and dirty, going straight to her head and then ditching her like a bad date, the marijuana was more of a slow burn—heating up at intervals, just when she thought it had left her. She didn't much like the feeling, or the control it exerted over her  
( _like sleeping pills or GHB_ )  
but there wasn't a whole lot she could do about it now. At least Amanda was in the same position, and she didn't make a big deal about the comment. In fact, she smiled and said, "'Bout time."

"Better?" Olivia pointed a finger back and forth between her detective and the fire.

"A little. It'll be way better once this dries." Amanda patted the intricately wrapped towel on her head. She began to untwist it and tried to arrange the terry cloth around her shoulders without disturbing the blanket already there. "Even my hair follicles are cold right now," she said, demonstrating with a shiver as she raked the comb through the ropy blonde strands that had tumbled free. She got caught on a tangle, swore, jerked the blanket and towel into place, and hissed as she pried at the comb.

Olivia cringed just watching the brutal treatment the fair, lovely hair—of which she had grown so fond—was being subjected to. "Oh my God, Rollins, stop. If that's what you do to poor little Jesse's head, I'm calling children's services. Gimme that thing."

If Olivia didn't know any better, she would have sworn that had been the plan all along: the comb landed in her hand without a fuss, and when she got to her knees, Amanda readily turned her back. While Olivia focused on the knots, carefully separating damp strands and working from the bottom up, until the comb ran a smooth course from root to tip, she noted the soft sighs that issued from the blonde's lips. "Sorry," she murmured, feeling a slight tremble from under the blanket when she hit a snag.

"S'ok. Didn't hurt," came the lazy drawl. And a moment later: "You're good at this."

"Have you seen my son's hair?" Olivia made it through the last of the snares, able to draw the fine teeth of the comb through each lock without a single hitch. She used the towel to squeeze out excess water and gently buff the entire mane. "All those curls. And he hates it when I do this. I had to get really good really fast, otherwise his hair would never be combed. Or washed."

"How's he doing, by the way? I've been meaning to ask. Sounds like he gave you a hard time about coming up here."

That was putting it mildly. Moments before she'd been set to walk out the front door, Noah had announced that he wished Lucy would adopt him and Matilda, because the nanny would never go away and leave them for the weekend. When that didn't get the results he wanted—Olivia had remained passive, despite the knife twisting in her heart, and reminded him that he sometimes went to sleepovers with his friends, too—he pushed Matilda down, hoping to incite tears. But his sunny little sister hadn't cooperated, either; she merely plopped onto her diapered bottom and continued playing with her wooden alphabet blocks. Not until Noah burst into tears of his own did the toddler drop her toys, pucker her lip, and let out a wail. The only time Matilda cried was when her brother did.

Olivia had nearly called Amanda to cancel after that. She'd actually taken out her phone, only for Noah to fall silent and watch her every movement with wide, eager (and mostly dry) eyes. That's when she decided she had to go. If she rewarded his bad behavior by staying home, he would get the message, loud and clear: she could be controlled by his outbursts, by hurtful words and violence. So she had soothed him with promises of some quality time together—and, she added to herself, a serious discussion about his attitude—for just the two of them when she returned, and she'd left not knowing if it was the right thing to do. She still didn't.

"Yeah . . . he threw a bit of a tantrum. He's been having a lot more of those lately," she said in an absent tone, sifting her fingers through the hair in her hands. It was almost dry and now she was simply playing with it, but she found it difficult to stop. "Sometimes I think . . . "

( _He hates me, I'm ruining his life, I'm a terrible mother—_ )

" . . . I hear a helicopter," she finished, tilting an ear towards the ceiling as the distant drone outside grew increasingly louder. It had risen to a choppy roar by the time it passed overhead, sounding near enough to make an emergency landing on the roof.

"Geez. That's close." Amanda tipped her head backwards, as if she were watching the aircraft whiz by. She used the awkward vantage point to gaze up at Olivia. "Wonder if they're still looking for that fugitive?"

Olivia sat back on her heels, frowning. With all the other troublesome thoughts and  
( _anxieties_ )  
concerns taking up space in her mind, she'd had little room left to worry about a prison escapee. "Kinda forgot about him," she said, studying the bay window that jutted from the far wall, underscored by a cushioned full-length bench. It was meant to be a quaint little nook, but all those shutters just made her want to double-check the locks behind them. There were too damn many windows in this place.

"He's probably long gone, if they haven't caught him yet. Canada or somewhere." From her upside down position, Amanda's eyes began to swim in their sockets. She lifted her head as though it weighed a great deal and, blinking dazedly, turned to look over her shoulder instead. "And he'll outgrow those," she said, reaching for one of the hands Olivia had rested on her shoulder. "They all go through that at his age."

"Hm?" Olivia glanced down in confusion.

"That last part was about Noah, sorry." Amanda smiled sheepishly. "Thought the sub zero dunk woke me up a bit, but I guess my head's still kinda fuzzy."

Olivia tried not to appear too amused by the blonde's misfortune, but it suddenly struck her as wildly funny, and she folded her lips into a tight line to keep from laughing. Her struggle must have been obvious, because Amanda fixed her with a playful glower and tossed aside the hand she'd been holding onto.

"You're as bad as those other two," said the detective, making a vague gesture to the door, as if Daphne and Meredith might be on the other side, trying to peek through the keyhole. (And knowing them, that didn't seem too far-fetched.) "I bet y'all planned this just to torture me. Was that even a real bird that flew into the window, or were one of y'all hiding a remote control up your sleeve?"

Olivia pretended to check inside both sleeves of her sweatshirt for any clandestine devices, then shrugged when she came up empty.

"You're such a dork," Amanda said, even as she laughed at the corny joke. Most of her color had been restored, and then some: she'd taken on an entirely pink hue, from the part in her pale hair, to the inflamed whites of her eyes—a lightning storm of red blood vessels raged in both corners—to the tip of her chilled nose. Her red pajamas only added to the illusion. She looked like a strawberry, ripe for picking.

 _Or for tasting_ , Olivia thought, her own cheeks flushing with heat. She still had a hand on Amanda's shoulder and she cupped it to the back of the blonde head, seized by an overwhelming urge to lean in and capture the woman's lips with hers. They parted invitingly, the breath behind them quickening, and Olivia's pulse sped up to match it. This was the opportunity she'd been waiting for since they'd exchanged heart candies with each other in the backseat, like a couple of lovesick teenagers . . . and for some reason,  
( _fear, guilt, shame, or was she just that broken?_ )  
she couldn't take it.

"I'm not the one who got knocked ass over teakettle into the river by a munchkin," she said lamely, and smoothed Amanda's hair as if that had been her intention all along. Still on her knees, she shuffled over to the fireplace and began stoking the fire with a poker from the tool stand.

"First off, that ain't a river, hon, it's a stream," Amanda said in a lofty tone, if a sentence containing "ain't" and spoken in a deep twang could be called lofty. "Probably a crick, more like."

"Really not helping your case here . . . "

Ignoring the comment, Amanda flashed two fingers from under the blanket. "Second: 'ass over teakettle'? Where the hell did you dig that up?"

"It's a thing."

"If you say so. You are right about Daphne, though." Amanda rubbed her neck like she had a kink in it. "She packs a helluva wallop. For an Oompa Loompa."

When their laughter died down, they continued grinning at each other until it became slightly absurd and they both averted their eyes, turning bashful. Or at least pretending to be. Olivia returned the poker to its stand and crawled back onto the comforter, resuming her seat at Amanda's side. She clasped her fingers together around her upraised knees and gazed into the fire for a moment, trying to think of something to say. Something besides the million other things she should.

"Your feet still cold?" Amanda asked, after a minute or two of silence that was only broken by an occasional snapping sound from the fireplace.

"A little." Olivia scrunched up her toes, to which feeling had yet to be fully restored, inside their thick socks. She rubbed her calves a few times, encouraging circulation there as well. "How about you? Your entire body still cold?"

"I think the threat of hypothermia has passed. But I'm still shivering like a dog shittin' nails."

"Wow, okay, that's graphic." Olivia shook her head at the colorful comparison, but chuckled anyway. Her detective definitely had a way with words sometimes. Case in point: Amanda held out an arm, the fog-colored throw extending with it like a fluffy gray wing, and said, "C'mere and keep me warm," in a raspy tone—from smoke, cold air, or something else, Olivia wasn't sure—and beckoned her underneath.

Stone sober, Olivia might have examined Amanda's motives a little further. Or her own, for that matter. She might have questioned the propriety of the situation, or overanalyzed herself right out of accepting the request. But right now, still mildly tipsy and fending off a reality so much colder than any stream or river, she didn't want to.

She slid in beside Amanda, allowing the blanket to envelop her, the warmth from the blonde's body heat trapped in its folds. It sunk into her bones, that warmth, and relaxed the anxious feelings that brewed just below the surface. When Amanda's arms went around her waist, tugging her closer yet, she wrapped the younger woman in a snug embrace, blonde head tucked under her chin. Perfect fit.

It was the closest she'd ever been to Rollins. They had seen each other on a nearly daily basis for the past ten years, but rarely made physical contact during most of that time. There were occasional touches on the hand or shoulder, sometimes an elbow, and all very chaste and professional, of course. Then, after Calvin had thrown them together with his horrendous scheme that almost cost them their lives, they had graduated to frequent hugs, even some arm in arm action outside of work. But after Amanda's close call at the brothel, when Olivia had started to suspect that her feelings weren't quite as platonic as they should be, she'd become standoffish again, restricting their contact to only what was necessary for the job.

Now, she couldn't imagine how she had gone six whole months without putting her arms around this woman. It felt completely natural, as if they cuddled under a blanket in front of a fireplace on the regular. Returning to real life was going to be even more of a bitch than she'd thought.

"Been a pretty crazy trip so far, huh?" Amanda asked, seeming once again to read Olivia's thoughts. Elliot was the only other person she'd experienced that connection with, and even he had often gotten it wrong, his perception skewed by his unavoidable maleness and a propensity for being an ass.

"Mm-hmm. Definitely more eventful than I expected," Olivia murmured into the wispy hair that tickled her chin and neck. Static from the blanket and fleece pajamas had transferred to the drying locks, the finer strands standing on end and grasping at her cheeks. She nuzzled them away, but they were every bit as stubborn as their owner. "Thanks to you."

There was a pause, followed by a drawl full of cowboy swagger: "I aim to please."

Had it been a Western, a "little lady" would surely have been attached at the end of that sentence. Olivia could practically hear the spurs clinking. She grinned at the thought and idly twisted a lock of hair around her finger, then smoothed it down Amanda's back with the rest of her blonde mane. She repeated the motion several times—and heard almost as many breathy sighs from Amanda—not realizing she was working up the courage to broach a new subject until it tumbled out of her mouth:

"That was some story you told earlier . . . "

"Hm? Which one?"

Olivia combed her fingers through silken strands, getting a little lost in the pleasant, feathery sensation, the little spark of static electricity when her hand returned for more. "Sleepaway camp. CeeCee," she said lightly, then wished she had left the name out. It was one thing to be curious, but remembering that small detail might come across as obsessive. Maybe even a bit jealous. (Which was ludicrous, because she seldom gave in to jealousy and certainly not towards a pair of underage girls fumbling around in a church closet. Even if one of those girls grew up to be Amanda Rollins.)

"Oh, that. Well, I knew Daphne would never let it go if I tried to skip that question. Come to think of it, she'll never let it go now that I answered, either . . . "

"So, you made it up just to get her off your back?" Olivia's hand stilled momentarily, until she forced it to continue the soothing rhythm she'd established. She held her breath when the hesitation was met with an even lengthier one from Amanda.

"I didn't make it up, no," came the measured response, finally. "That was my first experience with a woman. Girl. Whatever."

Olivia sorted out a strand at a time, as if they could be organized and numbered for future reference, then let each glide through her fingertips like the finest gold thread. She hated conversations that devolved into guessing games; she got her fill of that in the interrogation room. A direct approach was her preferred method, to the point of being downright blunt at times. Normally she didn't care if it got under people's skin—that was actually a benefit in her line of work. But she had already veered over the line of what was appropriate discourse for a lieutenant and her subordinate, and she didn't want to push it too far too soon.

"First . . . and only?"

Or maybe she did.

Amanda turned her head just enough to glance up at Olivia through a sweep of sandy-colored lashes. "You investigating my sex life, Lieutenant?"

_Goddammit._

"You're right, it's none of my business." Olivia started to extract herself from the tangle of limbs, hair, and blankets. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"Liv. Relax." Amanda's lips quirked up on one side, lending her a rakish sort of charm. She kept her arms looped around Olivia's middle, urging her to stay put. "I'm just giving you a hard time."

Olivia easily could have escaped the loose grip that held her, but she feigned being overpowered and allowed Amanda to draw her back in. If the blonde needed to flex a bit of muscle, let her. Sometimes relinquishing control felt really damn good, especially when it came to affection. She knew how to give it—working closely with children and living victims required a natural warmth and physical ease, at least to do it well—but receiving it was a whole other matter. (Another wonderful gift Serena Benson has passed down to her only daughter.)

So, obviously, she had dated some of the least affectionate men on the planet. With the exception of David Haden, who was a shameless flirt and an even more shameless romantic, she'd been the one navigating just about every affectionate exchange in her relationships for the past forty years. In some ways, that was how she liked it. Being in charge felt comfortable. Safe. But every once in awhile, she wanted to be held without having to ask for it first.

"Wouldn't wanna be the sort to kiss 'n tell, now would I?" Amanda added with a teasing lilt. She propped her chin expectantly on Olivia's shoulder, assuming the most angelic face possible. And considering the sky blue eyes and halo of golden hair, the likeness was significant.

"Oh, that was complete bullshit," Olivia said, and waited for the detective's twitters of laughter to subside before continuing with a little more trepidation: "I just said that because I've never—"

She searched for a conclusion to the sentence that didn't make her want to cringe. Either she ended up sounding like an old prude ("made love to"), a perp ("fucked"), or a horny teenage boy ("hooked up with"). None were particularly flattering. She settled for a nondescript hand gesture, and finished: "—been with a woman."

"I kinda gathered as much." It might have been the pot, but Amanda's eyes looked like they were twinkling. She patted Olivia on the hip. "If it makes you feel any better, my . . . encounters were brief. And kind of a mess."

 _Encounters_ , Olivia repeated to herself. No. No, that didn't make her feel better at all.

"It was just that time at camp. Then once in college." Amanda let her shoulders droop slightly under the blanket. "Turned out to be a sorority hazing thing. Bitches. But anyway, there was someone back in Atlanta . . . I thought it might go somewhere, but we were both rookies and she decided to sleep her way to the top with the male officers instead."

"Jesus," Olivia said in a voice soft enough to be mistaken as prayerful. She placed a hand on Amanda's upper arm, offering a small, sympathetic squeeze. "I had no idea. I'm sorry that happened to you."

"Yeah, it sucked. Not something I like to put out there too much, y'know? I kinda had a reputation for a long time. Didn't need to give people another reason to call me a trashy slut by mentioning I had sex with women, too."

Olivia remembered the detective alluding to her reputation for promiscuity a few years earlier, while reaching out to Mandy Fowler, the young girl who ran away from home after being cyberbullied about her assault. It had taken Olivia by surprise to hear Rollins speak so candidly about the hateful names she'd been called in her youth. At the time, their friendship was still finding its footing, after several rocky years when it could have gone either way. They'd both had their own demons to wrestle with back then  
( _only back then, Lieutenant?_ )  
and Olivia didn't want to play the nosy boss when they were finally on good terms. She had never questioned Amanda about the revelation—but it stuck with her, as did the memory of the blonde's tattoo and what it signified.

Sliding her hand down Amanda's arm, she lifted it gently by the slender wrist, hooked a finger inside the edge of its red pajama sleeve, and glanced up for permission. When she received a nod of assent, Olivia inched the sleeve back to reveal the inscription underneath in white ink:  _Amanda._  It had taken on a pinkish undertone since she last saw it, and now stood out on the ivory skin in petal-colored swirls. She traced her thumb over the delicate lines, suitably graceful for such a lovely name, and considered the various titles she associated with the blonde: Rollins, Detective, Annamandy, Georgia Peach, Mandy (Lou) . . . Of all of them, this word—cadenced and rosebud sweet—was her favorite.

"I would never think of you like that," she said, pressing her palm over the tattoo and guiding Amanda's arm back to her waist. "No matter what you told me."

"I know." Amanda reached up again to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Olivia's ear. "That's one of the things I love most about you," she said in a tone as reverential as the caress she gave Olivia's cheek. She cupped her hand there for a moment, smiling softly when Olivia leaned into the touch.

Love. Not 'like' or 'admire' or 'respect.' Not a term you used on a work friend or, worse yet, someone you viewed as a sexless robocop. Olivia wasn't one to rely on semantics alone, especially after an evening of drinks and joint-sharing, but the word choice warmed her even more than the fire a few feet away.

"I'm just not real fond of labels," Amanda went on, then indicated the spot where her tattoo resided. "Ironic, right? But if I were describing it, I guess you might say I'm fluid in that department."

Olivia's heart gave a funny little kick in her chest. She finally had an answer to the question she hadn't technically even asked. Hadn't even known she'd wanted to ask for quite some time. Emboldened by the information, she heard herself inquire: "But there hasn't been anyone since you came to Manhattan?"

"Well," Amanda drawled, and clucked her tongue once, dubiously, against her back teeth, like a car salesman negotiating a steep price, "there is this one woman I'm interested in . . . "

On the outside, Olivia went absolutely calm and still. By now it was a reflex, the same muscle which allowed her to sit dispassionately across from the most vile of criminals and hardly bat an eye. On the inside, her stomach was turning cartwheels and she felt light-headed enough to faint. If this wasn't what she thought it was, she might do just that—or else hunt this other woman down and kill her.

"Oh?" she asked, a slight catch in her throat.

"Yeah, she's incredible. Smart, tough, and braver than anyone I know. Not to mention insanely beautiful." Amanda aimed a wistful sigh in the direction of the fireplace, then turned her eyes on Olivia, a glimpse of flame reflected there, setting the blue irises ablaze. "Single mom with two great kids. Pretty important job. And I hear tell she's got a '65 Mustang squirreled away somewhere . . . "

Up until the last part, Olivia hadn't been one hundred percent certain. But suddenly she could breathe again, and everything besides her heart—still racing, now with exhilaration—resumed normal function. "So, what are you waiting for?" she asked, voice escaping in a soft husk this time. She angled her head to one side, which just so happened to be the side closest to Amanda.

"I'm a little worried she's out of my league." Amanda swallowed, audibly. Her gaze traveled up the length of Olivia's newly exposed neck, lingered on her lips. She leaned towards the latter with an almost imperceptible tilt of her own head. "Or that she'll turn me down flat. Don't even know if she likes women, to tell ya the truth."

"I think they're fucking amazing," Olivia whispered, her palm gliding up Amanda's arm, shoulder, then neck, before resting with the lightest of pressure at the back of her head. "Especially this one."

She paused only for a second to consider if it was the right thing to do. Almost every decision she made in her life was for that single, indefatigable purpose—The Right Reason!—even when it led her down the worst paths imaginable.

For The Right Reason!, she had given an honest testimony on the witness stand, knowing full well it would put an abused wife behind bars; she'd allowed a trafficked child to be taken to a detention facility and caged like an animal by the same man who had ripped her from her mother's arms; stopped another child from receiving a transplant organ that would have saved his life; prevented a woman from killing the man who raped her in the Texas dirt and getting the closure she so justly deserved.

For The Right Reason!, she gave up on a young boy at a critical time in his life, when she might have helped him turn things around; she didn't follow up with a young girl whose family had been destroyed by a madman; and then, for The Right Reason!—that righteous goddamn need of hers—she had adopted their child.

Tonight, Olivia wanted to forget the right reasons, even if meant being wrong.

Though it met with no resistance, she applied more pressure to the palm of her hand, pulling Amanda in for a kiss. The first lasted no longer than a few moments, their closed lips practically stiff beneath the sudden, firm contact. Olivia's eyes didn't even shut all the way. There was a small, comical chirp of air when they parted, but neither woman laughed.

"You sure about this?" Amanda asked, her tone so syrupy thick that Olivia could almost taste it.

Olivia grazed her lower lip against the blonde's. "Aren't you—" she said, but never fully articulated the question as the second kiss claimed her, open-mouthed and much longer than its predecessor.

She hadn't really known what to expect from her first time kissing a woman (although, she'd imagined doing so more and more over the years, especially since the day Alex Cabot had waltzed into her life—and right back out again, and again, and again . . . ). She quickly discovered there was no big mystery: she already knew how everything worked, what she liked and didn't like. And, to her immense pleasure, she liked kissing Amanda very, very much. Men tended to be too overeager—and slobbery—in her experience, always striving for the ultimate goal (i.e. sex), but the detective took her time, demanding nothing more than what Olivia was willing to give.

After a minute or two, they paused to catch their breath, foreheads touching. For the most part, their hands had remained still, but now Amanda placed hers on Olivia's shoulders, sliding them inward until they rested at the curves of her neck. Olivia reciprocated by wrapping both arms around Amanda, hands splayed at her back. They traded a brief look, both on the verge of speaking, neither willing to spoil the moment. Then the third kiss came, doing away with any need for words.

Olivia melted into this one, giving herself over to a warm mouth and gentle touch, two things she hadn't felt in such a long time. Two things she'd never felt with quite such intensity before. When Amanda's tongue finally glided over hers—tentative at first, then inquisitive and enticing, the more access it was granted—Olivia's body came alive, her very skin beginning to hum. She didn't usually require a great deal of foreplay, or at least she hadn't until she hit fifty  
( _be honest, forty-five: the age of Lewis_ )  
but the strong reaction, or rather the speed at which she achieved it now, surprised her.

It was a relief, to tell the truth. Another answered question she'd been too afraid to ask out loud. Her love life had been stagnant for longer than she cared to admit; Ed Tucker was her last sexual partner, and he predated the Mangler and the menopause, a dastardly duo she feared might have killed her libido for good. But as Amanda's tongue urged hers into action, drawing a throaty rumble of approval from the blonde, Olivia's arousal only increased. And when Amanda broke away, their mouths separating with a tiny yet evocative squelching sound, Olivia felt the loss completely. Before she could vocalize her disappointment, Amanda trailed a series of kisses along her neck, wet hot and so delectably soft it made her eyelashes flutter. Her mind flashed to the pencil-line scar that bisected her throat like a scale marking on a measurement beaker  
( _Okay, class, how much trauma can one middle-aged woman, 5'9" tall, 140 lbs on a good day, withstand before reaching full capacity?_ )  
but she chased the image away, an easy task with Amanda dotting those liquid fire kisses to her jaw and the extra sensitive spot behind it. When the blonde's teeth grazed her earlobe, tugging it in for an experimental suck, she lost all coherent train of thought and relied solely on the tactile: lips, teeth, tongue, hands.

"I want to touch you," she said breathlessly, making no attempt to mask the need in her voice. She toyed with the hem of Amanda's fleece top. "Can I?"

"Yes." Amanda bit into the word until it hissed in Olivia's ear. She repeated the same nibbling move on the opposite ear, soothing the lobe with another light suck, and whispering a just as sibilant, "Hell yes," on that side.

Olivia silenced the blonde with a fervid kiss on the lips—she'd lost count of what number they were on long ago—and slipped her hands under the shirt hem, palms gliding over the smooth, perfect skin of Amanda's back. It was even softer than she'd imagined (only the once, when she conjured the detective's face on the featureless blonde that had begun consistently sneaking into her fantasies), and for a while she simply reveled in the sensation, learning every valley and plain that made up the lovely topography beneath her hands.

When she used her fingernails, scraping them gently from shoulder to waist, Amanda deepened their kiss with a sensual moan that shot directly to Olivia's groin. She inched her fingers inside the waistband of Amanda's pajama bottoms and, obeying the request mumbled into her mouth ("Keep goin'"), cleared the drawstring and the lacy band underneath, to squeeze lightly at even more bare flesh.

"Fuck," Amanda whispered shakily, arching into the touch. Somewhere along the way, she had gotten on her knees and now she rose up on them, planting one on the floor at either side of Olivia's lap. She reached around and slid the ponytail ring off, setting Olivia's hair free with a heavy swoosh. She smiled as the dark locks tumbled into place, then raked her fingers into them from underneath, tousling. "Love it long like this," she murmured.

"Why d'you think I grew it out?" Olivia moved her hands back up to Amanda's waist, tracing a finger over the slice of tummy visible where the nightshirt rode up. She grinned at the little gasp it evoked, the blonde's abdomen reflexively twitching.

"Because it looks damn good on you." Amanda lowered her head for another kiss, hands still caught up in the coffee-colored tresses.

"That too."

Their make-out session lasted several minutes longer, becoming increasingly heated, until Olivia wondered how much more she could take without imploding. She soon regretted even asking herself that question. The problem started in her arm—or shoulder, to be specific. It was the injury she had suffered while held captive by Calvin; although, technically, Amelia had been the one to string her up like an animal carcass in an abattoir. That she remembered all too well. Despite a successful recovery, the strain had weakened her rotator cuff and it was prone to giving out on her from time to time. She'd noticed it earlier that evening, when she tried to tug Amanda out of the stream by her full weight and almost dropped her. And she noticed it again as she leaned back on her arm, supporting herself and Amanda, who was pressed against her, encouraging her to lie flat.

"Shit," she muttered, going down hard on one elbow. Luckily, the comforter and the thick carpet provided enough padding that it didn't hurt—at least not anything other than her pride.

"You okay?" Amanda hooked an arm behind Olivia's shoulders and eased them the rest of the way down. Concern registered on her features, mingling with the desire that had turned her cheeks and lips bright crimson. "Sorry," she said, wincing, "You hate that—"

"I'm fine. Just—" Olivia placed her hand at the nape of Amanda's neck, bringing the explanation and her intrusive thoughts to an abrupt halt by pulling the blonde in for another kiss.

As Amanda settled on top of her, the pressure against her pelvis creating a delicious yearning, the mouth against hers drawing her achingly forward, Olivia almost managed to lose herself in the moment once again. But something wasn't right. Something small and hard that was pressing painfully into her abdomen. For one fleeting and terrifying second, she became convinced it was a belt buckle  
( _ridiculous—Lowell Harris had been the only one wearing a belt, and he was dead like all the rest_ )  
and she tore her mouth away from Amanda's, strings of saliva wetting their chins.

"What?" Amanda blinked as if she'd been spritzed in the face with cold water, and swiped a sleeve across her chin.

"Hang on, ow." Cringing, Olivia tugged the front pocket of her sweatshirt from between their bodies and dug inside to extract Matilda's pink butterfly teether. She held it up in the firelight for the detective to see.

"Hot," Amanda said, eyebrow cocked at a sarcastic height.

Olivia forced a laugh and tossed the toy aside, vaguely aware that it landed a few feet above her head, hitting the comforter with a soft  _whoomph_. "Shut up," she said lightly, and returned to the kiss, trying to regain the same momentum as before. But the damage was done. She couldn't focus on the woman in front of her, on top of her, no matter how beautiful that woman may be, no matter how good she felt in Olivia's arms.

When Amanda braced herself against the floor, a hand at either side of Olivia's head, and shifted farther up her torso, it was too much. As if she were watching the frames of an old home movie flickering against the wall, out of focus and grainy with  
( _vodka/sleeping pills/GHB/wine/marijuana, pick your poison_ )  
age, she saw William Lewis crawling up her supine, useless body, his rough and probing hands leaving no spot untouched. Or no stone unturned, as he would have put it, grinning his licentious grin that somehow made her feel twice as dirty. Like she was a co-conspirator to his depravity. (And, sweet Jesus, hadn't she been? Hadn't she offered herself up to him on a goddamned silver platter more than once?)

In the next frame, blurrier than the last, she saw Calvin Arliss. Not as he had been at twenty years old, when his obsession with her reached its bloody, devastating climax; she still couldn't picture his face then, despite the photographs she'd been required to view after his death, despite her demands to visit him in the morgue—in search of closure or absolution, she had never quite decided. Try as she might to picture the man, she still just saw him as the boy whose Superman jammies she'd washed and whose artwork had once adorned her fridge with as much prominence as Noah's. But the things he was doing to her no boy should ever know about. Olivia wished she didn't know, either.

And finally, she saw Rollins stooped over to frantically perform the CPR that had saved her life. Her blouse and bra had been flayed open, exposing her come-splattered breasts, she knew that much from the detective herself. She often wondered if Amanda could ever forget that image. (And sometimes, just for a moment, Olivia wondered if she'd ever truly started breathing again that day at all.)

A surge of anger spurred her on when the last frame faded, the reel spiraling out to white nothing. She had sworn she would never let those  
( _monsters_ )  
men into her mind no matter what they did to her body, but here she was, giving them power over both: the memories were rapidly destroying her sex drive and her remaining buzz.

With one final burst of effort, she rolled Amanda smoothly onto her back, putting herself on top. It was the only position she could handle with Cassidy for a long time after the Lewis abduction. And poor Ed Tucker had learned very quickly that she did not like being approached from behind. Yes, the top was better. Amanda made her own approval known with a hungry little moan and an even hungrier kiss. Then her hands began to rove against the back of Olivia's hoodie and sweats. Olivia caught at them lightly, under the guise of lacing each finger through hers, and pinned them into the comforter above Amanda's head. Another warped frame of the grotesque home movie suddenly popped into view, and though Olivia couldn't possibly have witnessed this one, she saw it before her all the same: former Atlanta PD deputy chief Charles Patton pinning Amanda's wrists to the bed of a cheap motel room, telling her no one would believe he'd raped her.

_I can't._

Then, out loud: "I can't. I'm sorry." Olivia shook her fingers loose from the smaller, more slender set that twined around them, and pushed herself off of Amanda. "It's too—I mean, I don't— . . . We should slow down. I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay. We can stop," Amanda was saying, hurrying to sit up and straighten her twisted pajamas. But she looked stunned and utterly confused by the sudden mixed signals. Worse yet, she looked a little frightened, as if she expected a harsh reprimand. "Did I do something? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"It's not your fault," Olivia said, shaking her head long after she'd answered the question. Guilt was already gnawing at her insides, especially with Amanda sitting there wide-eyed, hair and clothes in complete disarray, all defenses down. The detective had let herself be vulnerable, trusting Olivia with a painful part of her past, and this was how she repaid that trust?

She was no better than those other women who had used Amanda to get their rocks off. "It's me. I thought I could, but . . . we're just moving really fast. Plus, we're drunk. And high. I don't want to take advantage of that. Of you."

"Oh dear Lord. There's no way in hell you're taking advantage of me here. I want—" Amanda stopped short when she put her hand on Olivia's arm reassuringly. "Jesus, Liv, you're shaking," she said in alarm, moving her palm around to Olivia's back to better gauge the tremors, as if she didn't believe her original diagnosis. Finding it true, she rubbed vigorously.

"Just cold." Olivia turned her face away, swiping at the tears that spilled from her eyes without warning. She wanted to get up and move around the room, to stoke the fire, to hang up Amanda's wet towel, something—anything to detract from the awful feeling that she was shattering from the inside out—but she didn't trust her quivering legs to carry her that far. She grabbed up the pink blur next to her on the blanket and squeezed until the butterfly-shaped teether felt like it was branded into her palm.

One more, to go with all the rest.

"Tell me what's really wrong." Amanda tried to nudge Olivia's chin back in her direction. When that didn't work, she stroked the thick brown hair she'd liberated from the stretchy black band on her wrist. "I know you're not okay. I can see it. You gotta talk to me, Olivia. Please."

It was so tempting. Olivia chanced a quick look at the detective—her closest friend and the woman she thought she might be falling in love with—and felt the truth welling up within her, ready to pour off her tongue if she would just let it. She knew how good it would feel to finally get all her secrets out in the open, the relief that would follow; she'd counseled hundreds of survivors over the years and each case was unique, but the one thing she told every single assault victim, no matter the situation, was that acknowledging what happened to them was the first step towards healing. That, and not to blame themselves. ( _Oh, and here's a shovel for that bullshit, lady, because you inevitably will._ ) How ironic that she couldn't follow her own advice. How phony.

She had told Amelia, and for a while, it seemed like enough. She had fooled herself into believing that the shameful secrets she'd begun harboring at the age of ten were dead and buried with the Mangler's accomplice. But they were merely waiting to be resurrected. Not like Lazarus or Christ in some divine coup, but like the things that slithered beneath the earth, the devils and demons that bided their time until the perfect host came along. Olivia's demons were right at home.

It was so very tempting. Then she thought of the slip. That little glimpse into her time with Lewis, which she had revealed to Amanda while they waited to testify against Annabeth Pearl for murdering her abusive husband. Tensions were so high, Olivia hadn't been able to stop herself once the story started. From behind a prayerful pose  
( _Please . . . please . . ._ )  
she had opened her eyes to find Amanda crouched in front of her, deeply concerned and speaking in the tone she used on rape victims. The detective was looking at her the same way now, using that same gentle voice. How would Amanda look at her if she disclosed every last vile detail from every one of her assaults? Surely not with the love and respect the blonde had professed the day of Annabeth's trial. In fact, she'd made it pretty clear back then how she felt about women who cowered in fear, sustaining abuse year after year at the hands of brutal men. Women who buried their terror and rage until it culminated in a violent explosion.

Olivia pressed her lips firmly together, until the urge to confess had passed. "I think I just overdid it with the wine. I haven't had it in a while, guess I lost my tolerance," she said, and shrugged. That much was true. Last time she'd sipped a glass or two of Merlot before bed, she ended up having a horrific nightmare. Other than a shadowy figure who loomed over her bed and those of her children, she couldn't remember the details. But it must have been bad, because she'd woken up in the hallway, wringing with sweat and pounding on Noah's bedroom door. Luckily, the kid slept like a rock. Since then, she did not.

"Are you sure? 'Cause I've been noticing some things—"

"Like what, Amanda?" Olivia asked tersely. She drew up her knees and folded her arms on top in the pantomime of a rapt listener. ( _You asshole._ ) "Enlighten me with your Detective Rollins insight."

( _Fucking asshole._ )

"Like you've got a really short fuse lately," Amanda said in a level tone, though hurt etched itself across her face in delicate lines, barely visible in the firelight, for the briefest moment. "And say what you want, but you're not eating. You're practically skin and bones."

"Not hardly." But Olivia left it at that. While "skin and bones" was a definite stretch, she had dropped at least ten pounds without trying in the past couple of months. And another five before that. After two years of unsuccessfully trying to get back to the weight she'd been in her late forties, she was now well below it. She had told herself it was a good thing.

"You're extra jumpy, too. And you just don't seem like yourself. You smoked pot, for God's sakes." Amanda made an emphatic gesture, then let her hand drop into her lap. "And yeah okay, so did I, but it's different for you. You're . . . you."

"You mean an uptight bitch?"

"No," Amanda said earnestly, ducking down to maintain eye contact when Olivia tried to glance away. "I mean you're Liv. You're kinda perfect, so I'm worried about what's going on with you right now."

Her hand returned for a tentative stroke at the back of Olivia's head. When it didn't get rebuffed, she continued the soothing touch and asked in a voice so gentle it made Olivia's chest ache:

"Is it because of what happened with Calvin? Or . . . someone else?"

Olivia heaved a weary sigh and scooted out of Amanda's reach. "I'm not having this conversation. If I want to talk about my problems, I'll pay my shrink to listen," she snapped, grabbing at one of the pillows appropriated from the bed. She gave it two sharp jabs with her fist, plumping the overstuffed mound. She was gearing up for a third, but pulled it at the last second, overwhelmed by a sudden, stark terror that she might not be able to stop. Her mouth certainly couldn't: "Sorry I'm not living up to your standards."

With that, she turned her back to Amanda and lay down on her side, wedging the pillow under her head. As soon as it was in place, she turned her face against it and wept in silence.

After several excruciating moments of complete stillness, she heard Amanda stir behind her. She held her breath, hoping the blonde would nestle up to her again, coax her out from the self-induced seclusion of her wet pillow, dark thoughts, and that damn creepy  
( _casket_ )  
wardrobe staring at her from across the room. But she didn't blame Amanda for getting up and walking away, either.

At first, it sounded like she had left the room altogether, but it turned out to be the bathroom door opening. When the light came on, Olivia caught a glimpse of Amanda hanging her towel over the side of the bathtub. She shut the door on her way out—much to Olivia's relief, her dread of darkened doorways sometimes paralyzing—and shuffled back out of view. The lamp with paper lantern shades switched off a second later, and this time it seemed the blonde might simply have gone to bed. Then she reappeared in front of the fireplace, where she stoked the anemic flames into a robust and vociferous blaze. She propped the poker against the stone hearth and circled back around Olivia to briefly rustle at the bedding. Wordlessly, she draped the throw blanket over Olivia and slipped underneath it as well, leaving just enough space between them for her presence to be known but not felt.

"I'm not perfect," Olivia said when they had lain in silence for a long time. She waited, finding it difficult to breathe, until Amanda's hand curved around her shoulder and a voice, just as tender as before, said:

"Maybe not. But you are to me."

Olivia rolled over and tucked herself securely against the detective's side, burying her face in a comforting niche of warm neck and blonde hair. Amanda readily encircled her with both arms, resting a cheek atop her head. Fifteen minutes later, Olivia was sound asleep.

**. . .**


	7. Illusory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy SVU Thursday (except not b/c it's on hiatus), readers! I know it's been 84 years since the last chapter, but I had to go out of town the other day and didn't get to prep this chap for posting like I wanted to yesterday. Anyway, here 'tis. **TRIGGER WARNING!** Body horror, references to rape, and night terrors. **TRIGGER WARNING!** P.S. Thank you for the chapter 6 reviews. It means a lot that you guys have stuck with me this far. I hope chapter 7 is to your liking. Oh, also. This was another chapter I split b/c of length, so I'll try to post ch 8 soon. Sunday or Monday-ish?

* * *

"Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer—both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams."

\- Bram Stoker,  _Dracula_

**. . .**

"Want to sit on Daddy Bill's lap and talk about it?"

\- William Lewis

* * *

**CHAPTER 7:**  Illusory

**. . .**

_In my earliest memory my mother is actually sober. I know this because we are at the park and no one is staring at the poor kid whose mom fell asleep on the merry-go-round, the mom who can't push a swing without lurching sideways. She's smiling, too, which is something I seldom see, unless it's tinged with sadness—or sometimes, disdain. Her teeth show. They are still a healthy white, so this is before the decay and gum disease she nourished with wine, champagne, vodka (her favorite), and the occasional Pabst (my favorite, as a kid, because of the blue ribbon on the can). Thirty-two little booze-suckling babies._

_I must be about two or three years old. Around Tilly's age. Small enough to sit in one of those swings shaped like a bucket, and just as hard, with a bar that slides down in front. My mother pushes me dutifully, methodically, as if she cares for my safety and my happiness. She giggles when I do. She makes silly happy faces at me as I go forward, silly sad faces when I go back. I don't know it then, but it's one of the last times I will ever feel completely and unconditionally loved._

(wake up)

_I suppose it's easy to love any two-year-old that way._

Don't be stupid, Livvy _, she says, though her lips don't move to speak the words. Her blue-green eyes, so much lighter than my own, glitter in the sunlight shining down on her ash blonde hair._ I never loved you.

 _I want to ask her why, what I could possibly have done at the age of two to deserve such hatred from my own mother. (_ You were born _, she thinks at me). But I don't have the vocabulary to form such a sophisticated question, and I couldn't, even if I tried: there is a strip of duct tape over my mouth. My face is so small, the tape covers my nose and folds under my chin. I haven't eaten in three days. As I swing to and fro, gazing into my mother's glittering eyes, as hard and shiny as marbles, my mouth begins to water. I wonder what it would be like to roll those marbles around on my tongue._

_She doesn't notice the crows at first. But staring out from my dark, wide, ravenous eyes, I can see them. They gather on the playground equipment that was considered safe in those days—instruments of torture now—rickety, scalding hot slides; rusted monkey bars too high for an adult to reach; jungle gyms that look like the salvaged remains of guillotines and prison cells. The crows line each, perched as proudly as if they made the kill themselves, this massive skeletal creature that swallows children up whole. Their inky black bodies are so numerous, they blot out the sun._

_It's not until one of the birds lands on the iron rod across my lap, cocking its head at me quizzically, that I realize I have summoned them, an army of crows. A murder. Intelligent animals, able to distinguish humans by their facial features, especially the ones who have harmed them. Animals with a score to settle._

Her _, I think-speak, and they descend. My mother never sees them coming because she has knelt down in front of a strange man on the big kid swing beside mine. She's giving him head._ I can go for hours with a ripe little cunt like you _, he tells her, even as the crows are shredding his testicles and gouging out her eyes. Even as gore fills his lap and seeps from her empty sockets, onto his pulsating cock. There's a birthmark the size of a bullet hole along its shaft._

 _When they are both dead, lying below my tiny, dangling feet, my crow friend returns and drops two marbles into my waiting hand. Then the birds retreat as soundlessly as they appeared. I am left alone with the bodies, or so I believe, until a man slinks out from under the bouncy wooden bridge_  
(wake up!)  
_that clatters when you run across it like you're being chased by a lion or the devil. Funny—I will spend my childhood trying to outpace the bad things, my adulthood running towards them._

_The man is abnormally tall, his head almost level with the top of the swing set. He is made of shadows—there is no goodness or light within him—but I recognize his face and the crescent moon scar I put there. He strolls over and holds his hands out to me, and no matter how much I scream for her not to, two-year-old Livvy lifts her arms to be picked up._

Daddy's home _, he announces, scooping me up from the swing and tossing me high into the air. Too high, but I squeal gleefully as I soar, my compact toddler body temporarily weightless, then free-fall back into his powerful hands. I've never felt this before, the wild and dangerous fatherly love he shows me. He raises me above his head and zooms me around the park at breakneck speed, until I'm delirious with terrified laughter and exhaustion. I decide my mother was a liar. My father is a good man._

 _He takes me home, jouncing me on his hip so I can't drift off to sleep against his shoulder._ Wake up, sleepyhead _, he says when we reach the abandoned beach house. He carries me inside, though I've grown considerably. I'm at least ten years old now, far past the stage of being toted around like a baby. But my daddy is big and strong, and I don't mind him holding me this way. He takes me past the bedroom I'm scared to look into (I don't want to see the hurt lady handcuffed to the bed in there) and into the kitchen._

Daddy Bill's got a surprise for his sweet little Olivia. _He sits me down hard on the countertop, but I'm a big girl and don't cry about it. Besides, he's getting a big bowl down from the cupboard and gathering up baking supplies, including a box of Pillsbury chocolate cake mix. He empties the mix into the bowl, then pokes my belly like in the little doughboy commercials._

_I try to do the giggle—hoo hoo!—but there is a horrible-tasting yellow rag in my mouth. When I start to take it out, Daddy Bill gives the back of my hand a sharp slap with a wooden spoon. It hurts very badly and this time I do cry, but he makes it up to me by handing over the spoon so I can stir in the water, oil, and eggs._

_While I stir, he makes up a funny little song for me:_

Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man! So I will, Livvy, as fast as I can— _Here, he capers around the kitchen, acting like a frantic cook, searching through the cupboards and banging on pans. I try to smile, but I can no longer breathe behind the rag. He doesn't notice that my face is turning purple._ Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with a D, put it in the oven for Daddy and me!

_I can't clap for his booming grand finale because my hands are at my throat, clawing desperately for air. He ignores my plight and takes the wooden spoon from the bowl, offering it out to me. Rather than chocolate batter, something white and viscous drips from the tip. It smells like come._

Aw come on, baby, open up for Daddy _, he says when I refuse the nasty stuff. After several attempts to shove the spoon into my uncomfortably full mouth, he throws bowl and utensil across the room._

 _I expect him to scream at me, burn me, break my ribs, but he just shakes his head in disappointment and sighs,_ Now look what you've done to your pretty new dress, you naughty girl.

_I glance down to see that I am wearing a dress made for a grown woman, the velvety red material drooping from my ten-year-old frame like a poorly hung curtain. (Unlikely, because I will swear off dresses at this age, in favor of bib overalls and bell bottoms, and I quit playing dress up in my mother's closet after discovering it contains more bottles than clothes.) Adult Olivia will fill it out nicely, but I have nothing in the way of feminine curves. Splattered across my flat-as-a-board chest is more of the smelly white stuff from the bowl._

Sylvestris Deus _, says Daddy Bill, and before I can apologize with my final breath, he pulls out a revolver and shoots me in the forehead._

_I wake up in a coffin. At least that's what I think it is, until I feel clothing brush against my cheeks. Even in total darkness, I recognize to whom the garments belong. They carry her scent, that midnight ocean smell I've only just discovered and already can't get enough of. I want to wrap up in that Amanda Rollins scent and forget about my dead mother, my Daddy Bill, and whatever waits outside this safe place I've found. But the door opens and a young boy's face appears._

_It's Calvin Arliss, one of my lost children. (Not the first, but please, God, the very last.) He's the way I remember him, before he donned the wire-rimmed spectacles and sexually assaulted ten women—including me—killing almost as many. In his hand, he holds a service Glock, hefty and sleek seal-black, but when he takes my hand and leads me out of the wardrobe, I go willingly and without fear. How can I fear one of my own?_

(wake up)

_Like Calvin, I am twelve years old. It's the age I will start menstruating, buy myself a training bra because I'm too embarrassed to take my mother into shopping centers, and get slapped for the second time in my life when she catches me taking money from her purse for food and maxi pads. All in all, a banner year._

Just wait until fifty _, Calvin comments as he guides me into the basement of Sealview Women's Correctional Facility. It's exactly as I remember it, too, right down to the rape room with the mattress stained in bodily fluids. Calvin ushers me there and instructs me to lie on the squalid, makeshift bunk, and because I'm a good girl, I obey._

_I won't kiss a boy until I'm fourteen, and even that's just a peck on the lips. At sixteen, I lose my virginity to twenty-one-year-old Daniel, my first serious boyfriend and only fiancé (ironically, he is my statutory rapist by today's standards). According to the clique of popular girls at my high school, whom I will spend four years avoiding at all cost, I am a 'late bloomer.' But as a twelve-year-old in the early eighties, long before the pressure to 'lose it' reaches the junior high set, I am untouched and painfully naïve. A predator's dream come true._

_Calvin observes my meager breasts, which barely disturb the line of my Blondie t-shirt, as he crawls on top of me._ Guess these will have to make do _, he says._ For now.

_I want to ask him what he means, but I no longer have a mouth. Below my nose, there is only skin. At first, I'm horrified by the sensation and dig my fingernails into the smooth flesh, desperate to pry it apart. I scream and scream inside my head, not making a sound outside of it. Then it occurs to me: without a mouth, no one can put things in it that don't belong._

_Plucking at my t-shirt, he winks at me and adds,_ I do have a soft spot for skinny blondes. Right, Mommy? _There is something hard and cylindrical bulging inside his pants, and he undoes them to reveal the straight razor he inherited—among other things—from his serial rapist grandfather. He opens the blade and holds it to my neck. I expect him to slit my throat like he tries to years later, but he trails the sharp steel down to my t-shirt, across Debbie Harry's pixie face, and stops at my belly button._

I'll never let anyone else have you _, he says, and slices deeply into my stomach. Huge gouts of blood soak into the mattress around us as he continues hacking, the razor carving out stringy, meaty chunks of me. He slops them aside and sticks his hands in the new orifice he's created, tearing out the parts of my body capable of forming life beyond my own. Turns out I will never use them anyway._

 _While he's up to his elbows inside my guts, I pick up the Glock and think,_ Click _, as I put the muzzle to his temple and pull the trigger. Before I can even blink, I'm baptized by his blood and brain matter. All my sins washed away._

_Despite my hollowed abdomen, I rise from the sticky red puddle that's oozing out of me, out of my almost-son, and congealing together on the bed. Never to be parted. I stagger off in search of help, but as I approach the barred door where I will someday be handcuffed and sodomized, two other little girls block my path. They are my age and nearly identical, except for their hair—one has long, sandy-blonde waves, the other coppery ringlets that are as fine and sparse as baby hair. The blonde is Amelia Cole; the redhead is our daughter, Matilda. I know this because their names—Millie and Tilly—are carved on their chests in jagged lines, blackened with dried blood._

_They bid me come play and with the resilience of childhood on my side, I oblige. We skip over to the merry-go-round that is not a part of Sealview I remember, but its wobbly wheel and squeaky axle are just as bleak and tarnished as the rest of the prison. We pay no attention to its condition as we clamber aboard and it starts to spin. I notice my new friends are tarnished as well, their skin as dingy and corroded as the shower stalls at intake. Cigarette burns and razor scars in various stages of healing are peppered up and down their skinny little girl arms. I'm aware that I should be horrified, but I'm having too much fun. Besides, my friends don't seem concerned; they scream and giggle as the ride goes faster._

_Soon, we're rotating so fast that the basement swirls around us in a blur, and I begin to feel unbearably sick._ Stop _, I think to the other girls._ I'm gonna barf.

Don't cry, sweet girl. We're just getting started. _It's the one called Millie, and she leans over to whisper something in her lookalike's ear. They peek out at me from behind the hand cupped around Millie's mouth, then they burst into more shrieks of laughter. Tilly whispers something back, and when I lean in to eavesdrop, she gives me an answer:_

I'll never love you, either.

_She says more after that, but I can't hear her over the deafening clatter from the merry-go-round. It sounds as though it might break apart at any moment, whirling off into a cyclone from which we'll be tossed and mangled like aluminum lawn furniture. I cover my ears against the noise, close my eyes against the spinning, and eventually the ride begins to slow. When it reaches a tolerable speed, I open my eyes again and find myself alone. My friends have abandoned me. I wouldn't mind the solitude, if not for that incessant clacking._

_I look up to see what's causing the sound, and standing above me is another man made of shadows. But it's not Daddy Bill. This man is holding a police baton, letting it clink against the merry-go-round handlebars with each revolution. Finally, he brings his black boot down hard on the wheel, halting it so abruptly I slam face-first onto the metal surface._

Guess whose ass is mine now _, he says when I roll over to look up at him. He unbuckles his belt slowly, tauntingly, and when I think-cry for him to stop, he loops it around my neck—such a frail and vulnerable spot at the age of twelve—and pulls it tight. My kicking feet as he jerks me flailing into the air are the last thing I see._

(please wake up please)

_This time the coffin is real. My adult body—not much different than now—lies in it, and I am very clearly dead. I'm dressed in the same burgundy pantsuit my mother wore to her grave. (Midway through her funeral, I almost laughed out loud when I realized it was the exact color of her favorite wine. Thirty-two and a novice at losing loved ones, I had cobbled together a last-minute ceremony with only a few of her colleagues in attendance. The woman seated beside me patted my hand sympathetically, mistaking my ill-timed mirth as a stifled sob.)_

_The mortician has failed to close my eyes; they are open and staring into the distance, as if I'm watching out the window for someone I haven't seen in many years, but none of the mourners appear to notice the oversight. In my mouth, cradled by my lifeless, desiccated tongue, are the two marbles given to me by the crow._

I can't believe she did this to herself _, someone mutters, and though I can't move my eyes in that direction, I recognize Carisi's voice. His words are amplified by the empty, rat-infested warehouse where I'm being memorialized. Rather than sad or disbelieving, he sounds indignant. Pissed, even. Fin's voice replies, filled with just as much vitriol:_

You know Liv. Always such a selfish bitch. Probably drunk off her ass when she put that belt around her neck, too. Like mother, like daughter.

No _, I try to scream,_ I am nothing like her! I would never leave my children like that. My family. I would rather—

 _But my thoughts are dead along with me, and no one can hear. They are lining up beside my casket to pay their final respects, filing past one by one. I see faces I haven't laid eyes upon in years: El, Alex, Cragen (_ Thought I taught you to be a better cop than this _, he says, and shakes his head), Rafa, Simon (_ You were a lot like Dad, after all _, are his last sentiments to his big sister). Faces I see nearly every day: Lucy, Fin, Sonny (still so angry as he glares down at his Lieu)._

 _And the faces dearest to me: Noah, who is grown now and strikingly tall and handsome, as I knew he would be. He gazes sadly into my dark, dusty eyes, and says,_ Oh, Mom . . . you fucking coward. _He leans down to kiss my forehead, thick and tacky with the concealer that hides my mottled skin, then wipes his mouth and walks away. Tilly is grown as well, though her hair is the same coppery red it's always been, and she has her mother's toothy grin—Amelia's, not mine._ I've been waiting for this day since you adopted me. Rot in hell, you miserable bitch _, she confides in my ear, then works up some crocodile tears and wanders after her big brother. And finally Amanda, whose tears are genuine, her face so anguished it hurts my unbeating heart. She grabs both of my arms and shakes me until my head lolls backwards on its flimsy, damaged stem, and I look like a gruesome rag doll, staring at the world upside down through dark soulless eyes, expression permanently aghast._ Wake up, Liv. You're dreaming _, she says, her voice tight with fear. (So, I really do frighten her. No big surprise—these days I frighten myself.)_

"Hey, darlin', shh. I got ya, you're safe. Come on back to me. C'mon, Liv."

_I want so desperately to do as she asks, to return to the safety of her arms, I will myself to blink. Slowly, I begin to regain feeling in my limbs. I'm about to_

(WAKE UP)

_when I raise my head and see them in front of me, four sets of hands pinning me back down into the casket. They are no longer hidden by shadows or childlike façades, my demons: Lowell Harris, with his sleazy mustache and deadly baton; William Lewis and that godawful grin, his bare hands the worst weapon of all; Calvin Arliss and Amelia Cole, still just kids really, but capable of unspeakable crimes._

_Leering, they advance as one, entering me through every available source—eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth, genitals, even my goddamn pores—until I'm full up, a tick gorged on blood. Then the lid closes._

_All my secrets, buried with me._

 

* * *

 

Initially, Amanda believed the absence of weight on her shoulder was what woke her. She could also feel her arm again, which hadn't been the case when she dozed off . . . however long ago. With her eyes still closed, she reached out and patted the bedspread, expecting to find Olivia turned over in her sleep, or at least a warm spot where she'd been a moment before. But the blanket was cold and no amount of stretching produced the lieutenant or her whereabouts. Last time Amanda saw her, she was heavily asleep, curled into a halfhearted fetal position, hands balled into fists and lips emitting small but consistent huffs of air.

Amanda forced her eyes open and propped herself up slowly on both elbows. She couldn't see squat in the dark room, but not too much time had passed, because there were still embers smoldering like lava in the fireplace. "Liv?" she whispered loudly, not quite willing to leave the warmth of the sherpa throw just yet. Then she heard the noise that had actually woken her up: a juddering scrape, like someone dragging a metal baseball bat across a gravel driveway. For the second time that evening, the hair on Amanda's arms stood on end. But it took the sound which followed—a soft, whimpering cry she immediately recognized—to really get her moving.

Olivia had made the same sound after being resuscitated from the overdose that stopped her breathing, courtesy of Calvin Arliss' home-brewed GHB.

Tossing aside the blanket, Amanda shot to her feet. Something small and hard had been resting on her chest; reflexively, her hand caught for it in the darkness below, closing around an unfamiliar, rubbery shape. If she were to wager a guess, she'd say it was a pretzel, but that made no sense. She forgot about it a moment later when, feeling her way blindly towards the lamp, she clipped her knee on a corner of bed frame. "Motherffff—"

 _Fuck_ , she concluded to herself as she rubbed her knee and hobbled the last few feet towards the lamp. She switched on one of the bulbs (the "pretzel" was the little butterfly toy Olivia had been clutching in her sleep), then hurriedly snapped the other two into accordance when she saw the source of the unsettling noises. Olivia stood by the fireplace, facing the wall like she was on a time out; in her hand, she held the wrought iron poker that Amanda had left propped against the hearth before bed. It swayed in her loose grip, heavy as a pendulum, the barbed tip scraping across the stone hearth with a  _chunk-chunk-hiss_.

"Liv?" Amanda asked uncertainly, squinting at the strange scene. She took a couple of gradual steps in that direction, but kept some distance between herself and the lieutenant until she could figure out what was going on. The closer she got, the more convinced she became that Olivia was sleepwalking. She'd dealt with Jesse's nighttime excursions enough to recognize the behavior; usually she just turned the little somnambulist around and directed her back to bed, but then, Jesse never came armed and highly capable of inflicting damage.

"Hey, Liv sweetie, why don't you put the poker down?" Amanda suggested, edging around the hearth to grab the tool stand with its only slightly less dangerous implements—brush, shovel, tongs—and move it aside. She grunted with effort, barely able to budge the heavy rack, but finally managed to situate it in front of the fireplace screen.

As if on cue, Olivia dropped the poker at Amanda's feet. It clattered loudly against the cobblestone, giving Amanda a start, even as she watched it fall. She grabbed it up quickly and returned it to the stand, then turned hopefully to Olivia, expecting her to be startled awake by the racket. Instead, Amanda was the one to fall back a step and draw a sharp breath. Olivia's eyes were wide open and staring straight at her—and straight through her. They were glazed over, pupils enormous and totally blind to everything in the room.

The long, dark waves that framed Olivia's face were plastered to her forehead, cheeks, and neck by a sheen of sweat. She was breathing as if she'd just chased down an especially agile perp. She mumbled something unintelligible, but at the tail-end of the sentence, Amanda discerned quite plainly: "Daddy Bill." It came out in a sweet, girlish timbre, making the scream that followed twice as jarring.

Amanda had heard Olivia yell plenty of times—usually at pricks who deserved it, or during turf wars with other precincts, when some gum-smacking, dick-measuring good ol' boy got in the way—but never had she heard an outright shriek of fear from the woman. It chilled her to the core.

This went far beyond mere sleepwalking. Olivia was in the throes of a full-blown night terror, from the looks—and sound—of it. Nocturnal disorders were a common trait in the Rollins clan, and Amanda remembered all too well being ripped from a dead sleep by Kimmie's blood-curdling shrieks in the bed next to hers (this was when they were still young enough to share a room without killing each other). Her little sister's pajamas would be soaked in sweat, sometimes urine, and she would be inconsolable until the episode passed. Back then, there wasn't a name for the affliction, and their mother had fretted over everything from diet to demon possession. Their father's solution was a good, sound spanking, which only resulted in more screeching and thrashing. Kim outgrew the problem herself, instantly and permanently, around the age of eleven.

Trying to wake the sleeper was a big no-no, everyone knew that much, but when Olivia started backing towards the antique wardrobe, Amanda instinctively reached out to prevent her from colliding with the solid mass of wood. That turned out to be the worst possible response. Olivia recoiled from the touch, throwing both hands up defensively in front of her face and slamming into the wardrobe with enough force to rock it back on its heels. It settled onto all fours again with a doleful groan, and gave Olivia a retaliatory shove foreword. She managed to stay upright, but the rough treatment frightened her even more. Now, she began to scream and sob in unison, whirling around to pound her fists against the wardrobe doors.

"No!" she cried in a shrill, pleading voice. "Please, don't! Let go of me!"

For a moment, Amanda couldn't move or speak. She could only watch in horror as Olivia reenacted whatever terrible dream or memory was going through her mind. She had a pretty good idea of what the memory was about, though, and just the thought that she was listening to Olivia begging not to be raped made her stomach turn. Tears pricking at her eyes, she put a hand out towards her friend but didn't dare touch. "Liv, it's me. It's Amanda," she said, and repeated it to be heard over the heart-rending sobs that shook Olivia from head to toe. "Listen, baby, you gotta wake up now, okay? I'm right here, you're safe. 'Member what I told you before? I'm not gonna let anyone else hurt you."

"Calvin," Olivia said, coughing up the name between convulsive gasps of air. She had finally stopped banging on the wardrobe doors, her hand drifting down to fumble with the brass knobs. She tugged on one of them, popping the door free from its inner latch with a hollow click.

"Calvin is dead, Liv. I shot him, remember?" Amanda found it difficult to hang back, with only words to offer comfort. She was a woman of action, not communication. It got her into trouble more often than not, but it also made her a damn good cop. And standing by while someone she deeply cared about suffered was almost too painful to bear.

"He can't ever touch you again," she said, inching towards the wardrobe with the goal of at least steering Olivia away from it. There was a built-in mirror inside one of the doors that posed a potential hazard, should the pounding resume. She was about to suggest closing up the closet when a brisk knock on the bedroom door nearly made her jump out of her skin.

"Shit." Amanda cast a wary look between Olivia—busy opening drawers and rifling through the contents—and the door, then hurried over to the latter to get rid of whichever curious Team Drama member was on the other side.

It turned out to be Daphne, her eyes saucer-wide, hanks of hair falling loose from her side braid, as if she'd been engaged in some recent vigorous activity. She was wearing Meredith's mint green kimono, with a whole lot of nothing on underneath, and holding a box of Little Debbie snack cakes. "I was downstairs getting a snack," she said, brandishing the swiss rolls, "and I heard screaming. And not the good kind. What the hell's going on in there?"

"Nothing," Amanda said hastily, motioning for her petite friend to move along. But another mournful sound—at first low and piteous, by degrees building to an almost animalistic wail—put an end to the quick send-off.

Daphne paled, her skin taking on a ghastly glow in the dark of the hallway, lit only by a distant light from another corridor. "Jesus, what was that?" she asked in a tremulous whisper, the box of treats in danger of being squished flat as she clutched them tightly to her chest.

Keeping the door cracked just enough to look out, Amanda used her body to block the clerk from peering inside the room. It was bad enough Daphne could hear everything that was going on; she didn't need to violate Olivia's privacy, however unintentionally, by seeing it, too. "Liv's having a night terror. I know it sounds pretty awful, but it'll be over soon."

"A night terror? I thought only kids had those." Daphne eased up on the Little Debbies, but her expression remained dubious.

"Adults can have them too."

 _Especially one with RTS whose so-called friend ignores her symptoms and spends the night trying to get into her pants instead_ , Amanda thought, utterly disgusted with herself. She had never exercised good judgment when it came to sex—some of her gambling habits seemed to have filtered over into the bedroom, or perhaps vice versa—but this was her worst fuckup by far. She'd told herself Olivia was a big girl, that the lieutenant wouldn't be coming on to her if it wasn't all right to proceed. And proceed she did: she'd wanted Olivia so badly it became a physical craving, like a junkie looking for her next score. And just like a junkie, she had put her own needs first, ignoring everything else to get what she wanted.

Woman of action, indeed. What a fucking joke.

"Will she be okay?" Daphne was asking, still standing on tiptoe and craning her neck, though the chances of her seeing over Amanda's head were nonexistent. "Is there anything I can do?"

"She'll be fine. But I should get back to her. Go on to bed, Daph. Really, it'll be okay."

"Are  _you_  okay? It sounds brutal in there."

"Yep. All good." Amanda gave a thin smile, hoping it wasn't as pained as it felt. "'Night."

"Goodnight . . ."

Sensing another question about to follow, Amanda eased the door shut as quietly—and politely—as possible and turned her full attention back to Olivia. The lieutenant was still rooting through drawers, empty now by the looks of it: Amanda's clothes were strewn all over the carpet in front of the wardrobe.

"Stop," Olivia muttered, grasping at the clothing rod inside the closet as if she were about to lose her balance. She swayed for a moment, then jolted backwards a step like she'd received an electric shock at moderate juice. She let out a strangled cry and began clawing at her neck, each breath more labored than the last.

"Oh my God." Amanda rushed forward without thinking, allowing panic to guide her, and received a sharp jab to the nose for her haste. Olivia had a mean right elbow, especially when you ran into it face-first while she was flailing. Momentarily stunned by the pain and the explosion of color that accompanied it, Amanda stood blinking her watering eyes and shaking her head like a mutt who had gotten slapped on the snout. She didn't think anything was broken, but there wasn't time to assess the damage because, right then, her earlier prediction came to pass with a splintering crack: in Olivia's distress to escape whatever unseen thing was choking her, she smashed the side of her fist into the wardrobe mirror, fracturing the glass in a spiderweb pattern that expanded outward around her hand.

( _Seven years' bad luck, ain't that right, Mama?_  Amanda thought, and dismissed the superstitious notion just as quickly as it came.)

Getting nowhere with delicacy and caution, Amanda clamped a hand down on either of Olivia's arms and bodily propelled her out of harm's way. The lieutenant stiffened, shoulders bunched beneath the firm grip, but didn't put up a fight, nor did she object when Amanda seated her on the floor and knelt to inspect for cuts and glass shards. A sliver of mirror—roughly the shape and size of a shark tooth—had pierced the padded flesh alongside Olivia's palm, releasing a thin trickle of blood that diverted its path towards her pinky finger, rerouting to her wrist as Amanda lifted the injured hand and plucked out the glass. She chucked it at the fireplace, where it pinged off the mesh screen and tinkled against the cobblestone, and swabbed the blood away with her sleeve. Other than a couple more nicks on the heel of the palm, Olivia's hand had made it out relatively unscathed.

Olivia herself was another matter; she had stopped gasping desperately for air, but her chest heaved with the uncontrollable sobs that hadn't yet subsided and her whole body now twitched as if it were waging a great internal battle. She doubled over with her head in Amanda's lap and wept until she went limp from exhaustion.

Murmuring soft, encouraging words, Amanda stroked the sweat-drenched hair back from Olivia's brow, caressed her florid cheek, and tried to make the transition into waking as least traumatic as possible. The dream's hold on the lieutenant was slipping, that much was obvious from her reaction to the soothing gestures.

"Amanda? I want . . . " Eyelashes fluttering against the brightness of the room, Olivia scrunched up her features in confusion and gathered a handful of Amanda's pant leg into her fist. She never finished saying what she wanted.

"Hey, darlin', shh. I got ya, you're safe." Amanda rubbed at Olivia's shoulder and down the length of her arm, trying to warm her. Despite the beads of perspiration that formed at the woman's hairline and continued to drip down her forehead, she was shivering so much that Amanda's own body quaked with it. "Come on back to me. C'mon, Liv."

One more feeble moan, one more tremor too intense to be called a chill, and Olivia turned her head and gazed directly up at Amanda as if she'd never seen her before. "Why'm I on the floor?" she asked, her voice scratchy and weak. She looked every bit as disoriented as she had after the GHB overdose. "Did I fall out of bed?"

"No. You were having a nightmare. Well, a night terror, I think." Amanda urged her to lie still when she attempted to lift her head and glance around the room. "A really bad one. I didn't want you to get hurt, so I had you sit down."

"What? I've never had— I was moving around in my sleep?"

"Yeah." Amanda could already hear an anxious edge in her friend's tone and didn't want to make it worse with too much detail all at once. She had hoped Olivia would go right back to sleep and remember nothing in the morning—like Kim used to—but no such luck. How she would have explained the shattered mirror, the cuts on Olivia's hand, and her own possibly broken and most definitely swollen nose, she hadn't a clue. "You were pretty agitated. Talking and . . . stuff. You, um, hurt your hand."

"My hand?" Olivia glanced at the fist in which she clutched Amanda's pant leg—she released it instantly, as if just noticing she was holding a live rodent—then stared at the other in dismay when Amanda held it up, along with the sleeve that was keeping the blood in check. "How did I do that?"

"The mirror," Amanda said with a reluctant nod at the wardrobe. Its door still stood open, lamplight reflected in each jagged segment of glass, turning the destroyed surface into a dazzle of yellow lanterns. A pretty mischance, or a glaring reproof, depending on how you looked at it. She knew full well which one Olivia would choose. "You accidentally hit it while you were trying to get away from . . . whatever you were dreaming about."

Olivia wouldn't be dissuaded from sitting up this time. With a dazed expression, she took in the broken mirror, the clothes scattered on the carpet, the heap of blankets where they had necked like a couple horny teenagers only an hour or so before, and the darkened fireplace with its misplaced tools. "I . . . don't remember. Just shadows or something. And this horrible feeling, like—" She put the hand that wasn't bleeding to her chest, grasping the front of her sweatshirt and scrubbing at it with her knuckles. She shook her head, shuddering. "I don't know. Did I really do all that?"

"Just the mirror and clothes." Amanda gave a light shrug, downplaying the fear she'd felt while watching her best friend, the most self-possessed human being she'd ever met, create the mess and scream like she was being murdered.

"Sorry about your clothes. I'll put them back when I get a Band-Aid on this." Olivia raised her hand from the makeshift sleeve bandage long enough to observe the cuts. A fresh runnel of blood forked along her palm from the worst gash—the shard that caused it was the only piece missing from the mirror, a tiny dark spot like a lost tooth—but the others had mostly dried up. "Shit," she sighed. "I don't know how I'll explain the mirror to Meredith . . . "

"Don't worry about it, she's got enough money to fix it. As for my clothes: this isn't all that different from how they look at home, to be honest." Amanda slipped a hand inside her clean sleeve and nudged Olivia's chin in her direction, drawing attention away from the wreckage of the wardrobe and using her cuff to dry the tears that still glistened on the lieutenant's cheeks.

Olivia turned with a vague and tired smile, but it faded instantly when she got a clear look at Amanda's face. "You're bleeding."

"Huh? Oh." Amanda sniffed, producing a snottier sound than she'd intended, and swiped her nose against her shoulder. Great, now she just needed some chaw and a styrofoam cup spittoon to complete the image.

"What happened?" Olivia shooed away the sleeve as it approached her again, and reached over to graze the pad of her thumb under Amanda's nostril. It came back slick with a pinkish swirl of blood and mucus. She wiped it heedlessly on the thigh of her sweatpants. "Did I— Oh my God, Rollins, did I hit you?"

_Son of a bitch._

"No. It was an accident and it was my fault." Another string of obscenities ran through Amanda's mind as she tried to finesse the incident. But Olivia's eyes were already awash with a fresh coat of tears. "I got too close when I shouldn't have. Bumped into your elbow, is all. It's really not a big deal."

Olivia didn't agree. "Oh my God," she said in a broken whisper. Her bottom lip began to quiver, as did the hand she clasped over her mouth. She peeled the wounded one free and placed it against the back of the other, then covered her face with both. Hands smeared in blood, head bowed, she resembled a stigmatic lost in prayer. "Oh my God, I hit you. Amanda, I'm so sorry. I would never—"

"Liv, listen to me. I know that, okay?" Amanda shifted onto her knees in front of Olivia, a palm on either of the lieutenant's shoulders, head bent to the same level. "It was not your fault. You weren't even conscious. Same thing used to happen to my sister, so I knew better than to try and restrain you. But you thought you were being attacked. Choked, I think. I got elbowed trying to intervene. Could've happened to anyone. By anyone."

It occurred to Amanda that she had listened to her parents having almost this exact same exchange countless times over the course of her childhood: her father bawling like a baby and apologizing for yet another black eye or busted lip, never needing to make up excuses because her mother spoon-fed them to him like applesauce. ("Oh, you were just upset about losing your shirt at poker, Dean, you didn't mean to push me down the stairs.") The big difference here was that Dean Rollins had been a nasty son of a bitch—it was how he got the nickname "Mean Dean," although as a kid Amanda thought it had something to do with those late night apologies in which he didn't  _mean_  his abuse—and her mother had been his doormat. Olivia Benson was nothing like either of Amanda's parents, would probably rather cut off her arm than hurt someone with it, and nothing that transpired in the past several minutes had made Amanda doubt that. She only hoped she could impress that on the lieutenant too.

"Attacked?" Olivia asked from behind her suddenly still hands. She wouldn't lower them, despite Amanda's attempts to make eye contact. "What was I doing?"

"Just . . . crying, and you kinda screamed a few times. You didn't want me to touch you." Amanda glanced at her hands and guiltily withdrew them from her friend's shoulders. "It sounded like you were begging someone not to hurt you. Then you acted like you couldn't breathe and started clawing at your neck. That's when I—"

"Did I say anything else?"

"Just a couple names," Amanda said softly. She had a feeling she knew where the conversation was headed: right where she'd wanted it to go all evening. Hell, even longer than that—at least since the day she found Olivia in the Mangler's kill room, half-dressed and mumbling about sodomy. But she didn't want it like this. God, not like this.

"What names?"

"Liv . . . "

That finally got Olivia to show her face. She'd been crying behind her hands, the silent tears more numerous than the ones she had shed so vocally moments ago. They stained her cheeks in silvery blotches and streaks that looked like war paint. Underneath, her skin was a violent shade of pink, puffy as a bee sting around the eyes and lips. "What names, Amanda?"

Amanda got a bad taste in her mouth at the thought of repeating what she'd heard. But Olivia had the right to know. "First, it was Daddy Bill," she said, her throat going dry. She cleared it, to no avail. "And later, you mentioned Calvin."

For a few seconds, Olivia scarcely took a breath. She appeared to have retreated into herself, shoulders hunching forward, hair falling in a dark veil on both sides of her face, leaving only her tearful features in view. Then she inhaled sharply and stated, "I'm going to be sick."

Clambering up from the floor, she ran for the bathroom with Amanda close at her heels. She made straight for the toilet, tossing back the lid and seat, and dropping to her knees to grasp at the sides of the bowl as she leaned over it. Amanda flicked the light on mid-step and swooped in to gather Olivia's hair in a loose handful at the back of her neck, rescuing it just in time.

Like everything else in the stately vacation home, the bathroom was huge, a pristine porcelain palace with a white-on-white color scheme that was practically sterile. Amanda had been reluctant even to touch the sparkling surfaces when she'd changed out of her wet clothes earlier. They were dripping dry in the glass-encased walk-in shower—not a fingerprint in sight—right next to a bathtub big enough to host a dinner party inside of, albeit a cozy one. Even the toilet was clean enough to dine on, or at least it had been until Olivia filled it with a fragrant mix of red wine and fettuccine noodles. Combined with her bloody handprints along the bowl and mishmashed on the ivory tiles, it now looked like the site of a grisly homicide.

"Get out," Olivia panted between retches. She went as far as reaching behind her to push at Amanda's leg, but when it didn't budge, she abandoned the effort and focused on relinquishing every last ounce of her stomach contents.

"Huh-uh. Not leaving you," Amanda said stubbornly, but rubbed her palm in slow, comforting circles against Olivia's back to make up for it. She continued her gentle ministrations until the liquid sploshes turned to dry heaves, eventually calming to an occasional shudder.

Olivia spat miserably into the toilet and sank down onto her rear beside it, too weak and shaky to get much farther. She accepted the wad of toilet paper Amanda held out to her, dragged it across her lips and chin, then pitched it in the wastebasket. Her physical strength wasn't the only thing to take a hit; her resolve had suffered as well: she let Amanda help her scoot back from the toilet and lean against the tiled deck that contained the tub.

When Olivia was situated on the shaggy bath mat, back to the wall, hand swaddled in the hem of her sweatshirt to stanch the blood, Amanda got to work. She went to the toilet first, closing the lids up discreetly before she flushed it. After an abrupt bit of suction, an oddly final gurgling sound replaced the normal watery gush of the tank refilling. For what seemed like the fiftieth time that evening, she remembered the damn broken pipes again.

"Aw, hell's bells," she muttered, jiggling the handle uselessly. She cast an apologetic look at the lieutenant. "I was gonna offer you some water, but I forgot there isn't any. I'll go grab you a bottle from the fridge—"

"Wait. Can you just . . . " Olivia bit her lower lip, patting the spot next to her on the mat to convey the word she couldn't bring herself to say out loud.

_Stay._

Amanda held up her index finger— _gimme one minute_ —and went to the medicine cabinet, which looked like it might very well contain an entire pharmacy. Basically, it did, and if she wasn't mistaken, everything appeared to be in alphabetical order. Rich people were fucking weird.

Shaking her head, she grabbed several bottles, a brand new pack of rolled gauze still in the box, and a bobbin of medical tape. Pausing with the load cradled in one arm, she nudged aside the lid of a vase-sized apothecary jar and scooped out an entire handful of cotton balls. She was half aware of Olivia's watchful gaze following her every movement, but as she turned back in that direction, it struck her how truly haunted the woman looked. With her hair hanging lank around her face—not quite slender enough to be called gaunt, but disturbingly close—and her mouth drawn into a tight line, she was all eyes. Dark, dark eyes.

"Okay, we got some options," Amanda said to break the silence as she settled onto the bath mat. (It turned out to be memory foam underneath the shaggy exterior, and more comfortable than you would expect from a bathroom rug.) She spread the items out on the ivory floor in front of her, selecting the Pepto-Bismol and Listerine bottles and offering them to Olivia in that order. "I recommend this, with this as a chaser."

Olivia tapped the Listerine label and took a swig directly from the bottle when Amanda unscrewed the lid for her. She swished the bright blue liquid briefly, then turned and deposited it into the tub, exhaling loudly through her mouth as she sat back down. "God, that burns," she commented, dabbing her lips on her sleeve. She leaned her head against the ledge behind it, surveying the room as if she were seeing it for the first time. "Meredith's never going to invite me anywhere again, once she sees what I've done to her guest rooms."

"Eh, this place is too ritzy for my taste, anyway." Amanda gave an indifferent shrug as she tipped a bottle of rubbing alcohol upside down, wetting the cotton ball she'd placed over the top. She could sense Olivia trying to avoid the subject that had made her stomach rebel so intensely, but they were way past pretending everything was fine now. Amanda had played along for far too long already. "It's going to sting," she said, easing Olivia's injured hand from its sweatshirt pouch. Then, as she began swabbing away the blood:

"Tell me."

Several moments went by without a word, not even a hiss of discomfort when Amanda dribbled alcohol onto the bloodiest of Olivia's wounds, carefully cleaning it and the lesser cuts with more cotton. She finally glanced up, afraid to find herself shut out once again, but Olivia's expression, though pained beyond measure, was wide open.

"I'm so tired, Amanda," she whispered, and tilted her head against her shoulder and the hard ledge of the deck, as if she could go to sleep right there. But her eyes stayed on Amanda, peering out from the huddled posture she'd retreated into. "It's exhausting always being so strong. Keeping everything to yourself. I can't do it anymore."

"That's the thing, Liv: you don't have to." Amanda squeezed lightly on her friend's fingers. "You're allowed to break a little."

Smiling sadly, Olivia shook her head. "I'm not. I don't have the luxury. There are too many people who depend on me." She glanced at the supplies piled in front of the mat, and picked up the pink butterfly toy that Amanda, unbeknownst to herself, had carried in from the bedroom. She rolled it around absently in her hand. "My kids, my squad . . . How'm I supposed to be a leader if I can't keep it together for them?"

"Well, I'm part of the second group, and I'm telling you it's okay," said Amanda, whittling open the box of gauze and tearing into the protective wrap. When she finally made it to the prize, she unraveled the loose end and began winding the gauze around Olivia's hand, interweaving the strip to cover her entire palm. She couldn't resist tracing her thumb over the little caterpillar scar put there by her knife. "Sometimes being strong means admitting you need help. You taught me that. And it doesn't seem like keeping it all bottled up is doing you any favors."

She tore off five pieces of the medical tape, sticking one to each fingertip, and used them to seal up the bandage nice and tight. A darn good field dressing, in her opinion, but she didn't stop to gloat. Instead, she laid Olivia's hand against her own palm, resting the other on top of it. "So, tell me. I can be strong for the both of us."

Somewhere behind those dark brown eyes a dam broke. Olivia made a valiant effort to hold back the flood, folding her lips together so tightly they whitened at the edges, but something—Amanda didn't know if it was her words or the nightmare or sheer exhaustion, though in the end, it didn't really matter—something had finally brought all her defenses crumbling down. "I've been lying. To you, to everyone. And for such a long time," she said in a weary tone. "I don't even know if I can . . . "

She reached out and grazed the backs of her fingers along Amanda's jaw, and it felt like a goodbye. "You're going to hate me by the time I'm finished."

"You can tell me anything— _anything_ , Liv—and it's not going to change how I feel about you." Amanda curled her fingers around the ones near her cheek. Impulsively, she brought Olivia's hand to her lips and kissed the palm. "I promise."

Olivia took a deep breath and blew it out unsteadily. "I'm going to start at the beginning, because I don't know how else to do this. And I need you to just listen, otherwise I don't think I'll get through it all. Can you do that?"

 _All_. Amanda suddenly found it hard to swallow, but she nodded solemnly. "Yes. I can do that."

**. . .**


	8. In Her Own Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I wanted to get this up earlier today, but my day didn't go according to schedule. So, here it is, a few hours later than intended—but better late than never, right? A couple of things: **TRIGGER WARNING!** Graphic descriptions of rape. **TRIGGER WARNING!** Also, I wrote this chapter before the conversation Olivia & Amanda had in ep 20x19 ("Dearly Beloved") about what Olivia overheard her mom saying on the phone when she was 15. Nothing in this chapter really contradicts that, but if you find yourself wondering why that's not included . . . that's why. And I took some liberties with Serena Benson's age (translation: I forgot her headstone had her at 56 when she died, and by the time I rewatched that episode, I'd already put her at a different age and didn't want to change it. So, voilà, Serena's four years younger in the _Devil_ 'verse.) I think that's it. Oh, except: thank you so much for the chapter 7 reviews!! You guys are the best. Lemme know what you think of chapter 8!

* * *

 

 **CHAPTER 8:**  In Her Own Words

**. . .**

"Okay." Olivia sat up straight and shook her hair out behind her. She closed her eyes for a second, passing a hand across her face and rubbing at the corners of her mouth, as if mentally and physically preparing for whatever came next. "Okay," she repeated, and opened her eyes. "So, you know the basics about my mother. Rape victim, alcoholic, English professor, et cetera."

Those three things were the extent of Amanda's knowledge about Serena Benson, quite honestly. Olivia seldom spoke of her childhood, and information about her mother was even harder to come by. In fact, most of what Amanda knew, she had gleaned from general conversation around the precinct, rather than a direct quote from the lieutenant. If not for those early years working alongside Munch, she probably never would have learned that much. But she of all people knew what it was like to be ashamed of a parent—of both parents—and so she'd never pried. Or at least did her best not to. Her curiosity had been piqued on numerous occasions, however; it was almost impossible not to ask questions when Olivia sequestered herself in an interrogation room with a rape victim turned suspect, then spent a good week afterwards storming into her office each morning, closing the door, and barely speaking to anyone unless necessary. "Leave it alone, Rollins," had been Fin's succinct advice.

_Sorry, buddy, no can do._

"I don't talk about her much, for obvious reasons." Olivia picked at the blood on her sleeve, then rolled the cuff back to conceal it. "She and I had a . . . complicated relationship, to say the least. It only got worse as I got older. We were at each other's throats constantly. So, I started dating one of her students, just to piss her off. And it worked. Really well. I was sixteen, he was about to graduate college. And when he proposed, all I saw was a way out of that hell. I would've married him, too, if she hadn't found out. After that, the fights were . . . bad."

She licked her lips, but failed to produce any moisture. "The worst was when she told me how she got pregnant with me. 'You're lucky I even raised you at all, you ungrateful little bitch.' She screamed that at me, and when I asked her what the hell she was talking about, she told me her rapist had gotten her pregnant and I was the result."

Olivia turned her bandaged palm up and out at shoulder level.  _Ta-da._  "At first, I thought she was just trying to hurt me, but it turned out to be true. And everything started to make sense. Up until then, I could never figure out why she was so unhappy, why she couldn't stand to be around me. Sometimes she could barely even look at me . . . "

A heavy feeling settled into Amanda's chest like a stone. She didn't know what she'd imagined, but this was worse. Even at her lowest points, she had always known her parents loved her. They might have a screwed up way of showing it, but at least she'd had that reassurance—their unconditional love—to fall back on. Suddenly, she regretted all the times she'd whined about her shitty family in front of the lieutenant.

"She left me alone quite a bit growing up. Usually it wasn't too bad—it's how I learned to take care of myself. And when she was at home, she drank to cope with being near me, so I didn't miss that. But this one night when I was ten years old—" Olivia's voice caught, and she paused to press a hand over her mouth. She rubbed it back and forth before continuing: "She came home drunk around midnight. That part I was used to, but this time she had someone with her. A man. I'd never seen him before. Never did again after, either. She dated a few guys here and there over the years, but I seldom met any of them.

"Anyway. They were wasted, fooling around. Oblivious to the kid hiding in the hallway. I knew I should go back to bed, but I wanted to make sure she was safe, you know?"

Amanda knew. At that age, she had hidden in plenty of hallways, waiting to tend to her battered and crying mother after one of her father's infamous rages. She'd started hating her mother in secret by then, nurturing the fledgling emotion—both scary and thrilling—like a baby bird fallen from its nest. But she had also loved her desperately, fiercely.

"I saw things no ten-year-old should ever be exposed to. She went down on this complete stranger right in the middle of our living room, and I couldn't comprehend—" Olivia combed her fingers compulsively through the part in her hair, wincing as she encountered the strands fused together by sweat and blood.

"Well, he got a little rough when she didn't finish him off like he wanted, and I was afraid he'd hurt her, so I just"—she chopped at the air, indicating a line, straight ahead and unfaltering—"charged him. Knocked him headfirst into the coffee table. I think I might've broken his nose."

She cast a sorrowful look at the dried blood under Amanda's nose. It had formed an itchy crust around one nostril, but other than some soreness at the bridge, Amanda barely noticed the irritation. She'd stolen a quick glance at her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror to make sure nothing was crooked (thank the Lord, it wasn't), then forgotten her mistreated nose altogether. Olivia would take much more convincing to do the same.

"He was pissed. Jumped up and came at me, ranting like a lunatic, but my mom grabbed me first. And I remember thinking, 'Oh good, she's going to protect me.' That's what moms do, right? Even after all the other crap she'd pulled, I still believed that."

The lieutenant gave a clipped, disgusted little laugh. For a moment, she was no longer present in the blindingly white bathroom; she was someplace far away. "She turned me around to face her and slapped the living hell out of me. He'd ejaculated on her hands, and I felt it—"

Her fingers hovered briefly near her cheek, but she curled them into the safety of a fist and let it drop onto her lap. "First time she ever hit me. I fell and banged my head on the floor. But the worst part was the look she gave me. I'll never forget that look. Just . . . sheer hate. I thought she was gonna kill me. She screamed at me, and I took off running for my room. Wouldn't let her in when she came crying and apologizing later. Took me four or five days to even speak to her again. A lot longer to trust her."

Try as Amanda might to remain neutral, her dislike for Serena Benson increased considerably the more the tale went on. She could now add child abuser to the list of what she knew about the woman. Mean Dean might smack his wife around, and Amanda had met the business end of his belt a few times herself when she got a little too big for her britches, but he had never slapped his kids across the face. It went against his code, as crazy as that sounded. Finding someone with even fewer scruples than her father was no small feat. No wonder Olivia didn't talk about her childhood.

Blinking back to reality, Olivia let out a heavy sigh. She stole a few sidelong glances at the bottle of Pepto-Bismol before grabbing it and downing a generous serving. She gagged on the chalky liquid, face contorting in revulsion as she screwed the cap back on. "You're the first person I've ever told that story to," she said haltingly, sounding as if it were a struggle to keep the medicine down. "The first conscious one, anyway."

Before Amanda could ask what she meant, Olivia distanced the pink bottle from herself with such adamance it would have been funny under different circumstances, and added: "I'm not sure why I kept it a secret all these years. Except, maybe I was afraid it . . . shaped me in some way?"

"How do you mean?" Amanda ventured carefully, when the explanation seemed like it might end there.

"That night was my introduction to sex and violence. And considering what's happened to me since, I can't help wondering if they're linked somehow. I keep walking blindly into these situations . . . it's almost like I'm willing it to happen. Maybe that night triggered something in me, or—" Olivia folded both hands over her heart, then held them up in a helpless gesture. "I don't know, predisposed me to that sort of thing? Hell, maybe it's just in my fucking blood."

"You mean what Calvin did to you?"

"Not just him." She sighed again, rubbing at her temple, eyes scrunched closed in frustration. Her irritable tone seemed to be directed inward, rather than outward at Amanda. It was a long time before she opened her eyes and resumed.

"A few years before you transferred to Manhattan, I went undercover in a women's prison. Sealview. As an inmate. I was so sure I could handle it. Cragen tried to talk me out of it, but I wouldn't listen. One of the CO's was assaulting the inmates, and he'd also raped a teenage girl whose mother was imprisoned there. This little girl was so angry, Amanda. She broke my heart."

Amanda nodded sympathetically. She knew the type. Sometimes it was the victims you couldn't get through to, the ones who lashed out at you the most, that hurt the worst. In some ways, Olivia had been that type of victim herself, up until this very moment. But then, so had Amanda at one time. She was determined not to let the lieutenant slip back into that same pattern, but first, she needed to know what she was up against. She had never heard anything about Olivia going undercover as an inmate—not via Munch or any other member of the NYPD grapevine—and the implications already filled her with dread.

"We went in not knowing who the guy was. Fin and I. We both had our suspicions, but we couldn't communicate much because his cover was a CO. Even the warden didn't know about us. And then the prison went into lockdown because of a TB scare. This one guy really had it out for me. Total prick. His hands were all over my ass two seconds after I got there. I was positive he was our doer. I knew it in my gut."

Olivia shook her head slowly. "I was so wrong. He busted me for supposedly inciting a riot, which was bullshit. But then his captain came in and took over. Lowell Harris." She spoke the name as if it were bitter medicine, far worse than the pink gunk she had forced down moments ago. She chafed her thighs with both hands until the red blot on her bandage began to spread, starting out pit-sized and blossoming into a cherry—and, as the blood squirmed off in multiple directions, the worms that came to feast on the fruit.

"Harris said he was taking me to the hole. We ended up in the basement instead. I just followed him down there, like a complete goddamn idiot. I literally walked right into it. By the time I realized what was going on, he had me trapped. There was these mattresses . . .

"He threw me on top of them. I was handcuffed and he was so damn strong. I've taken down perps his size, but they usually can't fight for shit. He knew exactly what he was doing. Tossed me around, pinned me to the wall. He uncuffed one of my wrists—" She paused to rub the wrist in question, as if the bracelet had only just been removed. "Easier access, I guess. But I managed to get away and hide. It's not like there was anywhere to go, and no one could hear me. I screamed and screamed, but no one came."

( _No!_  Amanda thought.  _Please, don't! Let go of me!_ )

"So I hid. I'd never felt that terrified and alone before. Not even when my mom left me by myself for days at a time. And the sound of that baton." Olivia shuddered, shaking her head to ward off the memory. "He kept dragging it along the walls and this fence thing. I still have nightmares about that sometimes."

"Well, obviously," she said, motioning to their surroundings and disheveled appearances. "Anyway, he found me. Clocked me a couple times with the baton. I nailed him in the balls and ran for the door, but it was locked. He came up behind—"

Here, Olivia's voice gave out, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Amanda touched the lieutenant on the arm, hoping the contact would ground her, keep her in the present. She hadn't experienced flashbacks after her own rape, at least not to the degree that Olivia exhibited them, but a good deal of alcohol and carousing were responsible for that small blessing. They had already tried that method earlier in the evening; now, she wanted to offer her friend—who was so much more than that—something substantial. All she had to give was herself, whatever that was worth.

Olivia grabbed onto Amanda's hand, holding it tightly. "He punched me in the face so hard I nearly blacked out. I couldn't even stay on my feet. I kind of just . . . gave up. There were bars in the door, and he cuffed me to those. He pulled— he pulled out his penis and told me if I bit him, he'd kill me. Then he forced . . . he forced himself into my mouth."

The last sentence was barely audible, spoken in a voice so choked with grief and shame—like twin vines snuffing out a tender shoot—it couldn't be called a whisper. But Amanda got the gist. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, determined to keep her emotions under control. Olivia was having a hard enough time recounting the rape, she didn't need her outcry witness to fall apart on her. Nevertheless, Amanda's heart felt as if it were being ground out like a cigarette under a merciless boot heel.

 _Sodomy_ , she realized, fleetingly. Such an ugly word for such an ugly crime.

"It only lasted a few seconds. Felt like forever. He didn't really have time to do much, but the things he said were horrible." Olivia squeezed her eyes shut and left them that way until she made it through the next portion of her story: "They made me feel . . . it was worse than dirty. Dehumanized? All I know is that for a minute there, I wanted to— I didn't care if I made it out alive."

With her bandaged hand, she brushed away the tears that escaped her closed lids and pearled amongst her long lashes. When her eyes fluttered open, she looked to Amanda with apprehension and more than a little guilt, as if expecting to be scolded for the fatalistic thoughts that went through her mind during a savage violation. Met without any judgement, she picked back up in a steady tone that was slightly detached: "Fin found us then. Ran in yelling. I don't think he saw what Harris was doing to me. If he did, he never said. And I never told anyone—not all of it, anyway. Either I said nothing happened, or that Harris tried to rape me, but didn't get the chance. I couldn't bear the thought of people knowing what he really did to me."

Amanda understood the feeling all too well. That sense of shame and embarrassment was what kept many victims from reporting their assault, or caused them to withhold certain details. For much the same reason, she hadn't disclosed her own rape until it became necessary. That, and she'd been afraid no one would believe her, or that they would blame her instead of the bastard who raped her. (She turned out to be right on both counts, at least in regard to her Atlanta PD brothers in blue.)

But the lieutenant had a far more loyal team in her Manhattan SVU comrades than Amanda ever did back home. She couldn't help but wonder where Elliot Stabler had been during all of this. Olivia was his partner, and according to NYPD legend, they had been an inseparable and formidable duo. If he was the golden boy everyone claimed, why the hell hadn't he protected Olivia? And if they were so close, why hadn't she been able to tell him what this fucker named Harris had done to her? Had Olivia been her partner back then, Amanda would have rained hell down on the correction officer's head.

Snapping out of the anger-fueled reverie, Amanda reminded herself that placing blame wouldn't help anyone, least of all Olivia, who was already shouldering the burden all on her own.

_Still._

"I got involved in a support group a while after," Olivia said with a light shrug. "I'd been all right up until then, but I started having these vivid flashbacks and insomnia, so I knew I needed to talk to someone. But when I got in there and heard those women describing their attacks, I couldn't go through with it. What happened to me lasted maybe ten or fifteen seconds. It was nothing compared to what some of them had survived. Risa didn't get to survive at all."

"Risa?" Amanda asked. Her thumb traced the veins on the back of Olivia's hand, still clutched snugly in hers.

"The little girl's mom. Harris killed her and staged it to look like a suicide. So, you see, I got off easy."

"Liv, no . . . " Amanda started to protest, to assure Olivia that her trauma was no less valid than anyone else's, but the look she received silenced the rest. She had vowed to let the lieutenant have her say, and that's what she intended to do. But first: "Please tell me that asshole is rotting in a cell somewhere."

"He was. Not for what he did to me, but we got him for raping the daughter. Few years back I heard he'd been beaten to death by some other inmates. Word got out that he was a former guard and a child rapist, and he didn't last very long after that."

God bless whichever considerate soul let that secret slip, Amanda thought grimly. Too bad she couldn't have done the honors herself. "Good," she said, and gave her friend's hand a gentle squeeze.

Olivia nodded without much conviction. Her attempt to smile fell flat, settling into a queasy sort of half-smirk, half-cringe. It faded back to profound sadness a moment later. "Yeah," she said, sounding deeply tired. "It didn't help much, though. I expected to feel better, or at least safer, knowing he was gone, but it's still . . . "

She put the tip of her index finger to her temple, thumb up so it became a gun, and pulled the trigger. "Right here. I guess he'll be with me forever. Just like Lewis."

Silence followed the name, dragging out for several seconds. In the distance, a faint whirring could be detected. At the back of her mind, Amanda identified the sound as a far-off helicopter, only vaguely aware of hearing it at all. She was too busy mentally preparing for William Lewis' debut in Olivia's narrative. She'd known there was more to it than four days of just talk; of course she had always known it. No way in hell a guy with Lewis' record would spend all that time alone with a bound and gagged woman and not take what he wanted. And he had wanted Olivia badly enough to break out of prison, lure her out with half the NYPD on his tail, and die at her feet.  _True fucking love, folks._

Ever since that day spent stewing—emotionally and physically—in the witness chambers of the courthouse, where Olivia all but dropped to her knees in prayer as she detailed the terror and desperation of being Lewis' hostage, Amanda had been tempted to ask what really went on between the lieutenant and her captor. But it felt like an invasion of the woman's privacy to bring it up, a lack of confidence in her honesty, which had already endured a trial by fire—on that day and so many others.

As if every last word of Amanda's internal dialogue were written all over her face, Olivia looked her in the eye and confided, "I've been lying about him, too."

Amanda squeezed Olivia's hand again.  _Tell me._

"I truly don't know what he did while I was passed out. Although he made damn sure I knew he had complete control of my body and could use it however and whenever he wanted. Between the pills and the alcohol, and not letting me eat or go to the bathroom, and his hands—" Olivia stifled a soft mewling in the back of her throat. She rolled her shoulders, as if shaking off a painfully tight grip. "The threats were bad, but the constant groping . . . He put his hands everywhere. Four whole days of it. I thought I'd go crazy if he touched me one more time. But that last day in the beach house was the worst.

"He had me on the bed, my hands cuffed behind me. We'd been driving for hours. I had to pee so bad I almost cri—" This time the sound she suppressed was a sob, and she lowered her head, hand covering her face. "I almost cried. He took me into the bathroom, but he didn't leave. He just stood there watching and when I finished— well, he took care of that, too. Then he jerked me up and pinned me to the wall. My pants were still down. He had my gun, and he kept stroking me with it. My . . . "

She moved the hand over her face down to her chest, and then onto her stomach, where it curled in on itself like a small, wounded animal. "Teasing me, you know?" she asked, glancing up for confirmation.

Unfortunately, Amanda did know. The Mangler had implied wanting to do similar things to the lieutenant with her gun. She wasn't sure if Olivia remembered the vile insinuation—or that Calvin, sick puppy that he was, had planned on forcing them to have sex with each other for his viewing pleasure—but she sure as hell wasn't going to bring it up. It had been difficult enough for her to shake those images. (For just a moment, when her make-out session with Olivia had really started to heat up, she'd thought about Calvin's suggestion and felt the slightest bit guilty, as if she were somehow fulfilling his wish. Nasty little fucker.) She wasn't going to put the same images into Olivia's head if the GHB had done her the favor of blocking them out.

"Yeah, I get ya," she said sadly.

"I thought he was going to use it on me. Rape me with it. I'm sure he meant for me to think that." Olivia chewed at her bottom lip until a thin red sliver split down the middle, the skin underneath inflamed—almost raw. "He was singing that Steve Miller Band song the whole time. You know: 'cause I'm a picker, I'm a grinner, I'm a lover, and I'm a sinner' . . . "

"I've heard it." Amanda had always liked that one. Now, maybe not so much.

"I can't listen to it anymore," said Olivia, her eyes unfocused as she gazed at nothing on the wall. "Not without thinking of him. And what he did after— well, he put the gun down, so at least there's that. But then he started going on about goddamn cake. How he'd always wanted a mom who would've baked him one and let him lick from the bowl. I had no idea where the fuck he was going with it, until— until he—"

Clenching her teeth, she made a noise of frustration—and humiliation—that was part growl. "He put his finger inside me," she finally managed to grit out, face red with the effort of unearthing words that were buried so deep. "Then he just pulled it out, stuck it in his mouth, and said I tasted 'better than red velvet.'"

"Christ," Amanda breathed, unable to hold the reaction in. She felt a sudden bristly numbness go through her, as if she had banged her elbow and the ulnar nerve was sending shockwaves to her entire body. She had the overwhelming urge to punch something until feeling was restored. And probably for a long while after that. "Oh, Liv . . . "

"Don't. I can't handle pity right now." Olivia put her hand up ( _stop!_ ), but her tone was more imploring than commanding. She blinked rapidly to keep the tears shining in her eyes at bay. "I don't want it, and I don't deserve it. I let that monster break me. From the very beginning. I was fooling myself if I ever thought I had control in that interrogation room. He knew exactly which buttons to push. And later, when he came for me . . . I could tell something was off, but I just walked right into it. Again. Froze again. I didn't even reach for my fucking gun, Amanda. He already had me then.

"And what he did at the beach house—you saw the way he brutalized all those other women. The ones who survived were too damaged to ever have a normal life again. All it took to break me was a touch. A goddamn touch that lasted less than five seconds. Meaningless. Then he slapped me on the ass, threw me back on the bed, and went about his business. He didn't even have to fuck me to fuck me, and he knew it."

Olivia took a long, stuttering breath and pushed it out forcefully. "I played right into his sick little game from the start. And even after it nearly killed me, I went back for more. I was going to  _let_ him have me."

Cupping a hand under the lieutenant's chin, Amanda gently coaxed her to look up. The hurt, the unfathomable suffering, in those dark brown eyes was almost too much to bear. "You did that to save a child's life, Olivia," she said, intentionally omitting Amelia Cole's name in hopes that a connection wouldn't be made between the then-twelve-year-old and what came later. But no dice.

"And look how that turned out," Olivia said spiritlessly. She allowed her chin to rest in the cradle of Amanda's palm, eyes drifting shut when the hand moved up to graze her cheek. Sighing, she permitted a few more moments of contact before easing away from the tender touch. "He ruined her, too. My God, you should've heard the things she said to me while she had me hanging there in that shithole."

Amanda's pulse quickened at the mention of the warehouse that had served as headquarters to the Mangler and his little ingénue. She knew Olivia had gone over the crime scene photos and, after CSU bagged and tagged every last shred of evidence (including all eighteen hundred snapshots and newspaper clippings that documented Benson's progress from detective to lieutenant), she toured the site "just to get a visual." Amanda didn't need one—she'd walked through Calvin's house of horrors with her eyes wide open while it was fully intact. It wasn't something she would soon forget.

"You remember?" she asked hesitantly, dreading the answer.

"Some of it. Mostly how it felt . . . and the smells. I remember being cold and my arms being numb from hanging by them. The paint thinner—you could still smell it when I went back. And him. The minute I walked into that room, I felt him sitting on top of me. How much it hurt when he used me like that." Olivia crossed an arm defensively in front of herself, resting just between her breasts, fist curled tightly at her cleavage.

The memory of finding the lieutenant with her shirt and bra sliced open, semen wetting her bare chest, and no air in her lungs, was one that had caused Amanda many sleepless nights. If she'd only made it to the warehouse a few minutes sooner, she might have prevented the heinous assault altogether. Her worst fear—and one she couldn't let herself dwell on for too long, lest she be swallowed up by self-doubt—was that it had happened while she stood just a few feet away. Had she been snooping around outside the office while Calvin was inside, abusing Olivia so horribly?

 _Please_ , she thought, not even sure whom she was addressing,  _please don't let that be true._

"I think he thanked me when he was done. And Millie held the razor to my throat during the whole thing." Olivia's hand unfurled bit by bit, fingers creeping towards her collar. She stroked at the faint white scar where Calvin had tried to slice her carotid artery, his last act on earth before he took three bullets: two to the heart, one in the head. His goodbye. "I remember you being there later. Trying to protect me, but then he hit you so hard."

"Wadn't that hard," Amanda said lightly as Olivia reached over to tuck her pale bangs behind one ear. They both knew she was full of shit. It had been hard enough to give her a week-long headache and earn her the nickname Shirley Temple—after the gash near her temple from being pistol-whipped by her own service weapon—among some of her colleagues. Fin still called her "Shirl" on occasion, usually when he wanted to rile her up.

"Oh, of course not." Olivia's mouth quirked up at the corner, but her eyes were swimming in tears again. She swept the drops away with the side of her finger as they fell. "I'm sorry you got pulled into that mess. I hate that you got hurt because of me."

"Liv, look at me." Amanda made an encompassing gesture, from her head to her feet. "I am fine. And you gotta know that wasn't your fault. None of it. Not Harris, not Lewis, and not Calvin. Or Amelia."

"Wasn't it? Those two were fine before I ruined their lives. I'm the one who told Vivian Arliss she was a product of rape. If I had left it alone, she might never have relapsed and Calvin wouldn't have known about his grandfather. They might've had a normal life. And none of those women would have suffered and died just because they looked like me.

"And Millie . . . if I had just told the truth about Lewis in the first place, he wouldn't have destroyed her family. She would've gone on being a happy, innocent kid, instead of cutting to rape fantasies about me and that goddamn psychopath."

Catching Amanda's startled expression, Olivia nodded. "That's what she told me while I was tied up. She said the first time she ever touched herself, she pictured Lewis fucking me from behind like he was going to at the granary that day. It got her off, thinking about him bending me over the . . . . Then she cut afterwards. And the entire time she was telling me this, she was— she kept—"

Olivia's chest hitched, her breath coming and going in short spurts. Tears coursed down her cheeks in earnest now. "She groped me like he did and rubbed herself off on my thigh," she concluded, and wiped roughly beneath her chin. "So don't tell me I'm not responsible. They were children, for Christ's sake. And somehow I inspired that perversion in both of them. If I'm not to blame, who the hell is?"

Momentarily speechless, Amanda could only shake her head in disbelief—at the cruelty and corruption of those so-called children; at the atrocities Olivia had endured and carried around in silence for so long; and at her own piss-poor ability to notice how deeply Olivia was suffering. What kind of lousy cop and friend let things get this bad before stepping in?

Well, no more. Amanda was going to fix this or die trying.

"Puberty," she said matter-of-factly.

Olivia paused in the middle of dragging a sleeve across her face and under her nose. "What?" she demanded, incredulous.

"Hear me out, okay? You met both those kids when they were twelve, almost thirteen, right? And they were both dealing with some major trauma at the time. Which also coincided with their sexual development. How many cases have we seen where some creep's fetish turned out to be linked to a bad experience they had during puberty?"

Amanda answered her own question with a dismissive motion—too many to name—and continued without missing a beat: "Remember the guy we busted who got off on amputating limbs, all because his mom lost her leg in a car accident when he was that age? Would you blame the mother for his sick fantasies?"

After a moment, only a small, begrudging, "No," in response. But it was better than nothing. Amanda rested her hands on Olivia's knees, ducking down to catch her gaze whenever it wavered. "I'm not dismissing your feelings. You're angry and you have every right to be. But darlin', you gotta stop blaming yourself for what  _they_  did to  _you_. All of 'em.

"You didn't put the needle in Vivian's arm. She was an addict long before she met you, and addicts relapse. Most of them look for an excuse to—believe me, I know. Besides that, the woman was sick. She abandoned her son and then had sex with him.  _She_  fucked Calvin up, not you. You did the best you could for him."

"You don't know that," Olivia said obstinately, but her posture sagged a little, as if the rebuttal was physically wearing her down. "You weren't even there."

"Yeah, but I know you." Carefully, ready to draw back if rejected, Amanda placed the palm of her hand over Olivia's heart. She had seen the lieutenant perform a similar action with survivors and thought it was just a way to convey the gravity of her words. But as Amanda felt the faintest glimmer of a heartbeat, she realized it was also a reminder of being alive, of spirit. That place inside which no one else could access or control. "I know your heart. You care about people and always try to help them, sometimes even when they don't deserve it. You took that kid in when most people would've just dumped him in foster care. You risked your life for Amelia. That's who you are, Liv, not whatever warped idea they had of you later on.

"As for Lewis, you were in no way responsible for anything that fucking asshole did, you hear me? He was an evil son of a bitch who loved to hurt people, and if it hadn't been the Coles, it would've been some other family. Some other little girl he might've raped and tortured. You put him in prison, you didn't break him out. And if you're looking for someone to blame for all the things that happened before that, blame me."

Amanda hadn't realized what she was saying until it already came out; but the more it sank in, the more she knew it to be true. For months after the first Lewis attack, she had felt guilty every time she saw Olivia, though never quite able to pinpoint the cause. She'd chalked it up to general sympathy for what the then-detective had suffered. Turned out to be guilt, after all—and it hadn't gone away, it was just lying dormant for a while.

"You?" Olivia asked, forehead crinkled in confusion. "Why the hell would I blame you?"

"Because I'm the one who brought Lewis in. I'm the one who insisted we shouldn't cut him loose. He never would've found you if I hadn't led him right to you." Amanda was surprised again, this time by a telltale burning in her sinuses and at the back of her throat. She didn't often get choked up with tears, but now she had to stop and gather her emotions. Her voice still caught when she said, "I'm so sorry, Liv."

"Amanda." Olivia shook her head adamantly. "Honey, no. There's no way you could've known what would happen. You were just doing your job. I would never blame you for any of that."

"But see, that's my point," said Amanda, softening her tone so it didn't sound like a lecture. "If I'm not to blame, then neither are you. You didn't know what was going to happen anymore than I did. It could just as easily have been me he came after. Would you've thought it was my fault if he did any of those things to me?"

"No." More decisive than before. And a moment later: "You know I wouldn't."

"Then you can't put it on yourself, either." Amanda took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she planned to say next. Her hand moved to tug at her bottom lip, a nervous habit that no amount of rubber band snaps to the wrist could break; she forced it away hastily. "You say you walked into those situations—but you were never a willing participant in any of them. Those men ambushed you. I took my rapist's hand and followed him into a crummy motel room. He didn't handcuff me or drug me or jump me in my apartment. He didn't have to throw me on the bed or tie me to it, because I got on it myself. I saw that he was drunk, and I smiled and flirted anyway."

Olivia listened intently, her face a study in sorrow. She hadn't pressed for details of the Patton assault—not during the trial or at any point thereafter, for which Amanda was grateful—but surely she'd spoken to Barba, or at least read his notes on the testimony her detective never got to give? And what she didn't discover through the former ADA could just as easily have been deduced from Reese Taymor's time on the stand; rapists were nothing if not consistent, their technique seldom varying between victims.

It had always bothered Amanda, the thought of her boss hearing about the rape secondhand, like a perverted game of Telephone. But until now, she hadn't been able to work up the nerve to speak so candidly about it. Not with anyone, really.

Good thing the woman seated beside her wasn't just anyone.

"I said yes to all of it, right up until I said no," Amanda continued. "And when no didn't work, I stopped fighting and let him finish. But that doesn't mean I wanted it, and it doesn't make what he did to me my fault. Took me a really long time to accept that, but I finally did. And guess what?"

"What?" Olivia asked, sniffling.

"You're the one who helped me figure it out. I was good at my job before I came to Manhattan—good at bustin' perps and closin' the case—but it's your compassion for the victims, your willingness to believe in them and stand up for them, that taught me how to be more than just a cop. And eventually I learned how to turn some of that compassion around onto myself."

A single teardrop escaped the corner of Olivia's eye, tracking a slow, meandering path down her cheek. Amanda brushed it away with the backs of her fingers. "Now it's your turn to do the same for yourself," she said, grazing her thumb across a delicate ridge of cheekbone.

"Easier said than done."

"But can you try? For me?"

Olivia tilted her head at an uncertain angle, shy almost—or at least as shy as someone of her caliber and poise could be—long hair pooling around her shoulder. She finally assented with a sigh and a nod so brief the only outward indication was a slight twitch in the dark locks against the lighter backdrop of her Nike sweatshirt.

"Good. That's a start." Amanda guided the hair behind Olivia's shoulder, smoothing it down her back. She repeated the motion several times, even after every strand was in place. "And so is admitting what happened to you. Takes a lot of guts to do that. I just wish you'd told me sooner, maybe I could've— I dunno, done something."

"There's nothing you could do," Olivia said, but not unkindly. "I wasn't ready. I didn't even realize how much it was bothering me at first. I'd had the other stuff under control for a long time, but then Calvin brought it all back up again. He and Millie. After that was over, I actually felt pretty good for a while. Stronger. On a high from surviving, I guess? Like I must have some bigger purpose or . . . "

Letting the sentence trail off, Olivia picked up the butterfly teether she had dropped into her lap at the start of her disclosure. She pinched it at the middle, rolling it along the length of her thigh like a lopsided pink wheel. "I was just fooling myself. Then I was busy with the new baby and making sure her adoption went through. It was a really good distraction."

An odd flatness to the last statement caught Amanda's ear, the way one bad note threw off an entire piano concerto. She studied Olivia closely, watching her fiddle with the little toy, rotating it over and over again. Up one leg and down the other. It suddenly drove off the cliff of one knee, and didn't return.

"I barely noticed when the insomnia kicked in. I was already up with Matilda all the time, anyway. But when I did sleep, I had the most awful dreams. Not long after that, the flashbacks started. And now, apparently I have night terrors too." Olivia gave a disgusted huff and sat back hard against the enclosed tub. "God, I'm such a mess. Feels like I'm hanging on by a thread. I'm not even sure if—"

Wincing, she clapped a hand over her mouth, as though she'd accidentally uttered the F-word in front of her children. Amanda waited for the rest, but it soon became clear the lieutenant didn't intend to finish. "If . . . ?" she goaded softly.

The answer, when it did arrive, came breathlessly and filled with as much turmoil and horror as each of the accounts that preceded it. "What if adopting Tilly was a mistake?" Olivia asked indistinctly, the bandage on her hand absorbing the question—a toxin incapable of containment once released—before it could escape into the air. Tears dripped onto the gauze, joining the blood and secrets that already permeated its folds. "What if I was just looking for a distraction from all the things I was too scared to face? That makes twice I've adopted a child after a major trauma. I can't help but wonder . . . "

For the first time since Olivia began baring her soul, Amanda felt genuinely worried about the lieutenant's recovery. She had absolute faith Olivia could heal and move on with her life—Amanda would be there every step of the way, making sure of it—but if the trauma affected her ability as a parent, she would never forgive herself. Just hearing her question the devotion she had for her children was a shock to the system.

"No way, Liv. Don't even think like that." Amanda grasped Olivia's arm, giving it the slightest shake to impress how fiercely she meant what she said. "You're an amazing mom. And I've seen you with that baby. You adore her. She was meant to be yours, I thought so from the start, remember?"

"So did I. From the very first moment I held her, she felt like mine. And I do love her—" Olivia's voice cracked in two, steady and vehement one minute, a tearful whisper the next. "—so much. She's my little girl. So easy and so sweet. But what happens when she's not a baby anymore? When she starts to look like Millie or Calvin? I thought I could handle it, but lately I've been so afraid . . ."

Turning a beseeching gaze on Amanda, the lieutenant visibly struggled to keep her emotions in check as she added, "Maybe I'm just repeating my mother's patterns. She had her rapist's baby, then felt obligated to raise it; I get assaulted, then adopt my attackers' child. That's no coincidence. And I can't do to Tilly what my mother did to me, Amanda. I can't. She deserves better than that. Better than me."

Olivia lost the battle then, crying as openly and fervently as she had during her nightmare. She didn't object to being gathered into Amanda's arms, her head guided onto the shoulder below. Nestling into the crook of Amanda's neck, she wept until the tears dried up and all that remained were quiet, racking sobs.

"Oh sweetie," Amanda murmured, and stroked the back of Olivia's head. "That's the trauma talking. There's no such thing as a better mom than you. Tilly's going to grow up knowing you love her more than life itself. Noah, too. If they weren't your top priority, you wouldn't be this worried about them knowing it."

She sensed Olivia clinging to each word, the tension in her body subsiding a little at a time as she listened to the gentle reassurances. Sometimes an outside perspective was necessary when you'd spent too much time with a problem, Amanda knew—and her lieutenant had welcomed this problem into bed and curled up with it like an old lover.

"You just need some time to deal with what you've been through. To heal. I honestly don't know how you kept it together this long, but that just goes to show, you fight like hell to be there for your kids. You don't up and leave 'em to fend for themselves, even when you're hurting." Amanda pressed a kiss to the top of Olivia's head, and spoke warmly into the dark brown tresses that teased at her lips. "You are nothing like your mother. She was too wrapped up in her own pain to be the kind of mom you deserved. But you turned out amazing, in spite of all that. Those kids are lucky to have you."

"Noah doesn't think so," Olivia said after a moment. Her nose was clogged from crying at an angle, making her sound as if she had a bad head cold. "Before I left this afternoon, he told me he wished Lucy would adopt him and Matilda. He's been acting out a lot lately. Throwing tantrums and talking back. Especially since I yelled at him a couple months ago. Over nothing. A goddamn song. It was my mother all over again, screaming at me for reasons I didn't understand. No wonder he hates me."

Amanda shook her head, nuzzling deeper into Olivia's hair, hand gliding rhythmically down the back of the thick mane. It smelled strongly of sweat and marijuana, but neither fragrance had completely overpowered the natural underlying scent, that bittersweet perfume that was entirely Olivia. "Hey, hey. He doesn't hate you. He's probably just picking up on the stress you've been under. You know how perceptive kids are. Especially ones as bright and sensitive as Noah. After the Labott thing, Jesse threw a fit every time I left for work. I bet your little guy's just anxious about his mama being upset, that's all."

"Great. So you're saying it is my fault."

"That's not what I—"

"I know. It's called being a smartass, Rollins." Olivia wiped her nose on her sleeve and inhaled sharply through her mouth, then exhaled with a weary groan. "Shit. I'm so sick of feeling this way. Thought I was handling it a little better up until a week ago."

"What happened a week ago?" Amanda asked. Other than Carisi bringing croissants to work instead of donuts—"If I wanted plain bread, I'd eat breakfast at Rikers," had been Fin's response—she didn't recall any significant events from the previous Friday.

"My birthday."

_Motherfuck._

Out loud, Amanda said, "Oh good Lord," and leaned back to look Olivia in the eye. The lieutenant glanced up from her shoulder, making no attempt to move from the cozy spot. "Why didn't you say something? We would've taken you out for a drink, or at least gotten you some cupcakes."

"That's why I didn't mention it. Wasn't really in the mood to celebrate." Olivia diverted her gaze, pretending to be interested in the buttons that marched down the center of Amanda's pajama top. She plucked idly at one, then withdrew her fingers as if it were hot to the touch. "I realized I'm the same age as my mom was when she died. Kinda put a damper on the whole party thing."

And now Amanda felt like even more of a heel. She clearly recalled telling herself not to forget that the lieutenant's birthday was exactly one week before Valentine's Day last year; she'd even written it down . . . somewhere. So much for Carisi's supposed steel trap of a brain when it came to remembering important dates.

"I'm sorry," she said with sincerity, scratching lightly at Olivia's back to grab her attention, and then simply just to do so. "About your mom and about forgetting your birthday. I'm bad at those. Barely remember my own half the time."

"It's not a big deal. Like I said." Olivia gave a brief, dismissive wave before resuming her boneless posture, soaking up the pleasant treatment from Amanda's blunt fingernails. She stifled a yawn, her eyelids—still vibrant pink from all the tears—drooping lazily.

Making a mental note that back scratches put the lieutenant to sleep, Amanda continued on dutifully, unable to contain a small, tired smile of her own. "Well, you're a pretty big deal to me, so yeah, it kinda is."

When there was no response, she thought Olivia might have drifted off, but a heavy sigh proved otherwise. "You do know that doesn't mean anything, right?" Amanda asked, focusing on a spot between the shoulder blades. "Being the same age as your mom when she died. Fifty-two is not old, Liv—"

"Says the thirty-nine-year-old."

"Forty in a couple months," Amanda shot back, although she hated to hear it out loud. She looked forward to The Big 4-0 with fear and trepidation, mostly because Fin and Carisi were already whispering to each other and stealing furtive glances in her direction whenever the topic presented itself—she was fully prepared to walk into the squad room and find it decorated with Over the Hill banners and funeral wreaths on her big day—but none of that was conducive to the point she wanted to get across. She went on like there had been no interruption:

"And you're in good health. You're physically fit. Let's be honest, you could probably kick my ass in a cage match—"

Olivia glanced up, eyebrow cocked. "Probably?"

"Yep. Also, you're not an alcoholic."

"No. No, I just occasionally do some drugs so I can get out of my own head for a while," Olivia said with a weak, humorless laugh. After a bit of effort, she lifted her head from Amanda's shoulder and sat up clutching it on either side. "Ow. Oh my God, ow. Stupidest moment of my life."

"Doesn't even make my top ten." Amanda cringed at the pained expression on her friend's face. "Headache?"

"Massive." Olivia peered out of one eye, the other scrunched shut. "The hell were you doing down there in Loganville?"

"That is a story for another time, darlin'. Preferably accompanied by something stronger than Sunoco wine and Broadway grass."

Hauling herself up from the floor, Amanda trudged over to the medicine cabinet and pilfered two capsules from a Tylenol bottle located in the "T" section. (So weird.) She delivered them to Olivia, who popped both before another offer of bottled water could be made. Dry swallowing pills was one of Beth Anne Rollins' many forbidden practices, an opinion Amanda actually shared with her mother. But for now, she let it slide. She'd already preached at Olivia enough without adding her personal hang-ups about medicine to the sermon.

"You wanna lie down, try to get some sleep?" she asked, putting out a hand to the lieutenant. When Olivia only looked at it, then up at its owner standing above her, Amanda promptly knelt down to her level. "You need to rest. You look wiped."

"I don't think I can sleep," said Olivia, even as each blink grew lengthier and drowsier than the last. The whites of her eyes were just visible between her barely parted lashes, giving her a rather ghoulish appearance in the overbright and antiseptic surroundings. ( _Morgue-like_ , Amanda noted absently.) "Maybe ever."

"Yeah, good luck with that."

"I'm serious, Amanda." Olivia's eyes snapped open and she was suddenly and viciously awake. "How can I let myself sleep, knowing what might happen? How can I ever trust myself again? I hit you and didn't even realize it. I've got two children and a gun at home. What if I get up in the middle of the night and shoot one of my—"

"That," Amanda said, taking Olivia firmly by the shoulders, "is never going to happen. Your gun's in a strongbox, right?"

"Of course, but—"

"So, you'll keep the magazines in a separate spot if you don't already, or you'll get rid of the whole damn thing. And in the meantime, you'll work at recovering. You've got all the tools you need, and you've got. . . " Amanda hesitated, uncertain if she should chance the rest. She might end up falling flat on her face, if Olivia didn't reciprocate. And given the lieutenant's state of mind, it was a risky shoot.

Who was she tryin' to kid? Amanda Jo Rollins lived for taking risks—and she seldom missed her target.

"You've got me," she said resolutely. "So, no more wine before bed, no more weed, period. And hell, if I have to move in with you and stand watch at night until the terrors stop, I will."

Olivia stared, her incredulous look indicating that—although she might be the one whose mental health was in total upheaval—she clearly thought Amanda had lost her ever-loving mind. "Right. Because my apartment's not cramped enough as is."

"You did say you wanted to find a bigger place," Amanda pointed out, offering a smile to show she was (sort of) joking. She took Olivia's arm and helped her up from the floor, mindful of the bandaged hand and the shoulder injury she knew sometimes still gave the woman grief. Not that Olivia would ever admit it; but Amanda occasionally spotted her rotating that arm and wincing when she thought no one was looking.

"Yeah, I can see it now," Olivia said in a dry tone, "you, our kids, the dog. And me, ranting in the attic like Rochester's wife."

"Who?"

"Literary reference, Rollins." Olivia swiped a hand across the back of her sweats, smoothing out the creases left behind from the rug. When the explanation was met with silence, she glanced up at the quizzical expression aimed her way. "Oh come on,  _Jane Eyre_?"

Amanda blocked the lieutenant from gathering up the medical supplies on the floor, bending to retrieve them herself. "Yuck. I hated that book in high school. So boring. Give me  _To Kill a Mockingbird_  over that maudlin crap any—"

The scream, though remote and muffled by the distance—it sounded like it had passed through several walls and possibly a flight of stairs, to reach them—came from somewhere inside the lodge. Amanda stood up abruptly, dropping a handful of plastic bottles on the tiles below, where they bounced and catapulted off in various directions. She looked to Olivia, as if she were responsible for the terrorized cry, but her brown eyes were widened in surprise, her mouth rounded into a perfect, mute little "O."

Before either of them could speak, another scream rang out, and this time it didn't stop.

From within the long, piercing note emerged a distinct and frantic plea: "Help!"

"That sounds like Daphne," Amanda said, darting past Olivia on her way to the door. "Stay here."

"Like hell," said the lieutenant, falling into step beside her.

**. . .**


	9. Imminent Danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, guys, I'll try to keep this note brief, since it took freakin' forever to update. I'M SORRY. My weekend was super busy. Hopefully there aren't too many glaring mistakes in this chap, 'cause I kind of just skimmed so I could post faster. (This is the longest chapter of the fic, btw. In case you were curious, lol.) **TRIGGER WARNING!** Graphic violence/body horror, threats of rape. **TRIGGER WARNING!** Please read & review. Keeps me motivated. Enjoy.

* * *

 Follow me into the endless night  
(I can bring your fears to life)  
Show me yours and I'll show you mine  
(Meet me in the woods tonight)

\- Lord Huron, "Meet Me in the Woods"

**. . .**

"I ain't picky. I improvise. More fun that way. Those campers I left all over 'Tucky were my best work yet."

\- Tad Orion

* * *

 **CHAPTER 9** : Imminent Danger

**. . .**

_Like hell_. If Olivia had known how apt those words would prove to be, she'd have chosen a different phrase. But as she and Amanda thundered down the stairs, following the shrieks that had not let up for the duration of their trip from bathroom to hallway to first floor, she was hit by a premonition so strong it felt like ramming into a brick wall. She almost collapsed onto the bottom step under the weight of it, her legs going as wobbly and uncooperative as  
( _her mother's_ )  
a drunk driver's during the mandatory Walk and Turn of a field sobriety test.

Something was very wrong in this big, lonesome house out in the middle of the woods, and whatever waited for them around the next corner, she did not want to see it.

But she had spent so many years running towards the danger—made it her life's mission to do just that—she couldn't give it up now. She wouldn't. No matter the toll it took, she had a duty to uphold. And if anyone was qualified to face the darkness and not shy away, she was it. Like it or not, she'd confronted evil enough times to recognize it—the aura, the primal scent, the heart-pounding electricity that crackled in the air like a live wire—and to call it by name. ( _Harris, Lewis, Arliss_  . . . that unholy, hissing trinity of signatures scrawled across her body and her soul.) Unfortunately, that meant it knew her name as well.

In the moment before they rounded from the front hall into the kitchen, socks sliding on the smooth laminate flooring, Olivia hoped she had it wrong. That this was just another instance of Daphne or Meredith overreacting to some laughable tragedy, like a leaky pipe or a suicidal bird. But her hope evaporated when she saw the blood. The human body only held so much, and after years of visiting gruesome crime scenes, you learned to gauge the amount on the ground, the walls, sometimes the ceiling. You could tell whether or not the victim had survived, even without the body present.

In this case, the body was there, propped up against the bottom corner of the stainless steel refrigerator. A woman of Meredith's size would have roughly nine pints of blood in her system. Most of that now lay in a puddle beneath her, thick as red paint. What hadn't spilled down her front was smeared across the cabinets, the countertop and the fridge in streaky, nightmarish handprints. Neither Olivia or Amanda stepped forward to check for a pulse, though they arrived at the gory perimeter around the woman in unison—Meredith Ashton was most certainly dead, and no amount of heroics would change that.

Her eyes were gone. Not just closed or rolled back in her head, but altogether absent from the sockets. ( _Birds_ , Olivia thought wildly. And then, inexplicably:  _Marbles._ ) It looked as if they had been carved out with a sharp implement, most likely the steak knife cradled in her upturned palms. Also what had created the deep gashes in her chest, including the one directly over her heart. Both hands rested in her lap, presenting the murder weapon like a precious gift. She'd been posed and that was bad enough, but sweet Jesus, the eyes. Olivia couldn't look away from those empty black holes gushing tears of blood.

The killer's fun—for whoever had staged this tableau surely delighted in such horrors—didn't end there. Meredith's long blonde curls, so lovely and enviable in life, were scattered around her like autumn leaves in death. Much of her hair had been hacked off with the knife, several butterscotch-colored strands still clinging to the grisly blade. What little remained stuck up on her scalp in spiky, sallow patches. Her awkwardly positioned limbs and milk-white skin ( _pallor mortis, death had occurred very recently_ ) gave her the appearance of a ceramic doll, mistreated at the hands of a careless and sadistic child.

"You good?"

It took a full ten seconds for Olivia to realize the question was directed at her. She turned to Amanda—who looked as if she were standing at the far end of a long gray tunnel, though they stood shoulder to shoulder—and nodded. "You?" Olivia asked, noting the detective's own abnormal pallor and swaying stance.

Amanda made a noncommittal sound, a grunting "huh" that might have been an answer or another question, then rushed towards Daphne as her screams gave way to a swoon. Catching the smaller woman just in time, Amanda walked her to the opposite side of the kitchen island and stood her against it, facing away from the macabre scene. Olivia watched in a momentary daze, not quite over the surreal feeling that made everything in the room seem as fake as cardboard cutouts, props on the stage of a demented play. She wondered briefly if she were still dreaming.

But it was no dream. She could smell the blood, metallic and soupy, as if a pot of coins had been left to boil on the stove. ( _Or keys._ ) It was an odor you didn't soon forget, and one no dream could manufacture. She allowed herself a moment more of unreality, staring into the dark cavities that once housed Meredith's kind blue eyes, eyes that only a couple of hours ago sparked with liveliness and humor. Then she turned from the corpse and joined the other two women.

Amanda was patting Daphne's cheek, trying to snap her back into the present, with minimal success. Olivia knew the feeling all too well. She leaned down to the clerk's level, establishing eye contact, and took a deep breath. She blew it out slowly and repeated the exercise until Daphne matched her, breath for breath, no longer gulping lungfuls of air. "What happened?" she asked, when the hyperventilation subsided enough for the woman to speak.

"I-I found her. I found her." Daphne pointed behind herself and tried to glance back over the counter, but Olivia took her lightly by the chin. "I s-said I'd get us a snack. She was h-hungry after we— when I got back sh-she was gone. I thought she was playing a joke. But she d-didn't come back for a long time, so I went looking. Upstairs and everywhere. I checked in here and she was— she was . . . like  _that_. The lights were off. She's afraid of the dark."

Typically the individual who discovered a body became the first suspect, and since two members of their ensemble hadn't left the upstairs guest bathroom, and the other was dead, Daphne might have looked twice as guilty. But a quick appraisal of the brunette was all the proof Olivia needed of her innocence: not a drop of blood anywhere on the hands or on the silky robe, which concealed a frame much too petite for the butchery on display here. And though Daphne had a flair for the dramatic, she couldn't possibly feign such convincing shock. Her eyes kept drifting in and out of focus, her body trembling violently beneath its thin covering.

"Is she really dead?" she whispered, casting a desperate glance back and forth between Olivia and Amanda. "Can't you help her?"

"She's gone, honey," Olivia said, her voice gentle but leaving no room for doubt. She slipped an arm around the woman's slight shoulders, just in case the news brought on another spell of wooziness. Daphne stayed upright, but she turned into the embrace, burying her face against the front of Olivia's hoodie and wetting it with her tears.

Catching Olivia's eye over the top of their friend's head, Amanda jerked her chin toward the foyer and the front door that lay beyond. "We should go," she mouthed, with an urgent little wave.

Olivia nodded, already ushering Daphne in that direction. Meredith hadn't mutilated herself, and if none of the remaining trio were responsible, that meant there was someone else in the house. Someone Olivia very much did not want to meet, especially while unarmed and shaken to the core. (Thank God twenty-odd years as a cop had sent her into autopilot once the initial shock wore off, instead of leaving her frozen in fear, as she'd come to anticipate. Maybe she still had it after all.)

She spotted a cell phone on the counter and grabbed it as they exited the kitchen, unlocking the screen to reveal a background photo of Daphne hugging a large apricot-colored powder puff, only recognizable as a dog because of its collar. ("Hammie," read the ID tag shaped like a bone.) Olivia brought up the keypad and dialed 911 as they hurried through the front hall. She swore inwardly when the call was dumped a second later, the phone emitting a cheeky little beep, alerting of: No Service. Telling herself she could try again from the car, she dropped the phone into the pouch of her sweatshirt.

"Where are we going? We can't leave Mere," said Daphne, struggling in vain against Olivia's arm at her shoulders and Amanda's at her waist. They easily overpowered her and kept moving, the clerk's bare feet squeaking as they skidded over the slick flooring.

"We'll send someone back for Meredith," said Amanda in a hushed, hasty tone. "Right now we need to get outta here. Whoever did that to her might still be here."

"What?" Daphne asked shrilly, but it had done the trick. She gave up her fight and rushed forward willingly, tugging on the pair of wellies that Amanda handed over from the mat beside the door.

The policewomen both stepped into a pair of the rubber boots as well—Amanda opted for the ones she'd worn into the stream, now dry, thanks to the lieutenant's upside down trick; Olivia grabbed whichever ones had the least mud and stone caked into the ridged soles. Coats were slightly more complicated. Olivia and Daphne retrieved their own from the antler hooks on the wall, but Amanda's leather jacket was still sopping wet. At first, she wouldn't accept the light pink puffer jacket that Olivia snatched up and held out to her. It had belonged to Meredith.

"Take it, Rollins." Olivia stuffed the coat into her detective's arms, not wasting time with bullshit sentiments about how the former actress would want her to have it. Amanda needed it, and Meredith did not, nor would she ever again.

Olivia plucked up the car keys from a dish on the narrow console table where the deceased woman had tossed them, upon arrival at the lodge. "Let's go," she said, and held open the front door, arm raised high for the others to pass under. Daphne was first in line and halfway out the door when the lights winked off with such little fanfare it was almost unnoticeable. Almost, if not for the pitch black darkness that flooded the entire first floor, including the front porch. It stretched into the yard and across the driveway, colliding with the impenetrable darkness of the forest, like two tidal waves that crashed, combined, and consumed everything in their path. The moon watched from a safe and impassive distance, its pearly glow resting on the surface of the night but offering little illumination within.

Uttering a soft "Oh!" of surprise, Daphne stopped short on the porch, her oversized boots clunking on the wooden planks. She gave the yip of a small, kicked animal when Amanda closed in from behind and steered her towards the steps at full speed. Olivia paused only long enough to dig the cell phone from her pocket and turn on the flashlight, but as she fumbled with the buttons, she heard a wet sloshing deep inside the house. It sounded like the gurgling belly of a great, hungry beast, and the heavy tread of footsteps on stairs signaled the beast's approach.

He was in the basement. Olivia's racing thoughts sought out a name for him, hissing suggestions in her ear— _Harris, Lewis, Arliss . . ._ —which she forced away with all her might. They were dead. She was alive, and she damn well intended to stay that way.

Quietly, she eased the front door shut, crept over the noisy floorboards with swift, light movements, then pelted across the expansive lawn at a full run to catch up with the other women. They had just arrived at the car by the time her boots hit gravel, and she veered for the driver's side without a word, punching the unlock button on the key fob. It wasn't until she reached for the door handle that she understood why Amanda hadn't already piled into the vehicle with their passenger—both anterior windows were smashed in, littering the front seats with chunky, lime-colored glass that looked like rock candy. The tires on Olivia's side were flat, large punctures gaping open in the dense rubber. An anxious nod from Amanda confirmed that the other side had suffered the same treatment.

Cold, familiar dread settled into Olivia's chest, causing her heart to seize up momentarily. If it was possible to feel claustrophobic in the middle of a mountain range, she felt it now. Tied up in a trunk or stuck in the middle of nowhere without transportation and the nearest town at least ten miles away, the fear made no distinction. She couldn't help but wonder if this were somehow her fault too. Had her night terror and breakdown in the bathroom been just the distraction this faceless intruder needed to pulverize the BMW—and its owner—without being heard?

Screw it. There would be plenty of time for self-blame later, as long as she got her ass moving right now. She jerked open the car door and swept aside some of the glass with her bandaged hand, clearing a spot on the seat.

Amanda bent to peer through the jagged wreath of remaining glass in the opposite window. "Liv, what're you—"

"The gun," Olivia said, a knee propped on the seat as she leaned across it to open the center console. She hoped to God the weapon was still there, right where she and Amanda had encouraged Meredith to leave it when they were unloading their bags. Neither cop had wanted to wake in the middle of the night to an accidental shooting, should one of the civilians get spooked.

Laugh's on you, coppers.

And the punchline was downright hilarious: Betty the gun was gone, along with an indeterminate number of magazines. Meredith never said how many she'd brought. A well-fed girl like Betty could probably go just about all night long.

"Fuck!" Olivia slammed the console closed and shot a worried glance at her detective, shaking her head. She backed out of the car and guided the door shut silently, extinguishing the cabin light so it wouldn't be seen from any of the numerous dark windows several yards away. With any luck,  _he_  was still wandering around inside and assumed they were too.

Amanda looked over her shoulder at the lodge, then out at the privacy fence and the woods beyond. "On foot?" she asked over the car roof, voice low as she leaned in like Daphne wasn't listening beside her.

"Do we have a choice?" Olivia replied, but didn't wait for an answer. She pointed to the back of the BMW, meeting up with her friends there, and turning the cell phone over to Amanda. It might belong to Daphne, but the detective would make better use of it.

And sure enough, requiring no direction, Amanda shielded the flashlight against her palm and dialed 911; meanwhile, Olivia popped open the trunk and felt around inside until her hand located the object she was searching for. She curled her fingers around the slender steel rod, hit by an unsettling sense of  
( _Daddy Bill_ )  
déjà vu as she pulled the L-shaped tire iron from under the trunk lining.

"No service," Amanda muttered grimly, in response to Olivia's expectant gaze.

"I thought we were walking." Daphne eyed the tire iron, oily black and visibly heavy, even in the amber haze that resulted from Amanda sticking the lit cell phone into her pink coat pocket. "You don't have time to change all four tires. What if he—"

"It's not for the tires," said the detective, eyes on Olivia.

The clerk must have gotten the hint, because she fell silent and resumed deferring to the policewomen on matters of strategy and escape. She did, however, edge slightly closer to Amanda while the blonde argued in favor of cutting through the woods. Olivia thought it best to stay on the gravel path and let it lead them to the main road, but Amanda was adamant that she could guide them just as easily through the trees, making them more difficult to spot, should  _he_  decide to follow.

"What about the neighbors?" Daphne asked timidly as the other two squared off. "The Clines or whatever. We saw their lights when we were out there. Maybe they have a phone? Or a car."

Olivia and Amanda exchanged a sheepish look, neither willing to admit they had forgotten about the distant neighbors in their haste to flee the lodge. And to be right. Putting her ego away, Olivia signaled towards the door that had granted them access to the woods during their earlier outing to bury the bird. It was closer than the front security gate, anyway. She still thought sticking to a designated path would be the better option, but if Amanda said she could lead the way, Olivia trusted her to do it. She trusted Amanda with her life.

"Come on, then," she said, and doubled back across the lawn with the detective at her side, Daphne following close behind. They cautiously skirted past the front porch, lingering much closer to the lodge than Olivia would have liked as she hunted for the key to the padlocked door. Luckily, there were only three on the ring to choose from, and one was a transponder key to the BMW, its black plastic head excluding it as a possibility. She had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right on the first try, and she sure as hell better: the front door to the lodge swung open as she picked the smallest key and jammed it into the tumbler.

With a sharp twist ( _footfalls on the porch_ ), the shackle sprang loose from its prison ( _a short, militant whistle pierced the air_ ) and she yanked it free of the hasp ( _"Where you ladies goin' in such a hurry?"_ ). The weighted lock fit perfectly in the palm of Olivia's hand. She found its heft comforting, balancing out with the iron in her other hand. Keeping her steady. Keeping her on the ground. She turned to face  _him_  as she pushed the door open, extending an arm to guide Daphne on through.

"We're leaving. Just let us go," she said calmly. A curious thing happened when you were finally confronted with the bogeyman who once inspired such mind-numbing terror. Sometimes you saw that he was only a man, and fear, only an emotion. And you got fucking pissed off at the tedium of those ordinary, everyday monsters: both man and fear.

Still, she didn't allow herself to squint up at him—just a him, nothing more—on the porch, to make out his face in the moonlight. He already had the advantage of a gun and higher ground, she wouldn't let him see her searching the shadows for answers. After years of spotting criminals, with little more to go on than an unreliable witness description or a grainy surveillance photo, she could assess most people at a glance. This guy was big, at least six foot. Probably in the vicinity of two hundred pounds, but whether that was muscle or padding she couldn't be sure. He had to be strong in order to brutalize Meredith so thoroughly and without a sound. Strong and angry.

"Nah, that ain't gonna happen," he said, leaning his elbows casually against the porch railing, a stout boot poking through the vertical bars and resting heavily on the bottom rung. His face came into view then, the skin leathery, as if from too many sunburns, and the eyes hawkish, mean. Mid to late fifties, perhaps, but not worn-down. "Stick around, we'll have some fun."

His idea of fun was splattered across his hands and chest in bold red strokes. Olivia began inching her way backwards, bumping up against Amanda in the process. "Get out of here, Rollins," she said under her breath, attempting to push the blonde behind her. Amanda didn't budge.

"Hey, Orion, is it?" asked the detective, her head tilted coyly in his direction. He snapped his hard gaze over to her, eyes narrowing to two black slits. "Yeah, saw you on the news. You got lots of folks 'round here looking for you. Why don't you be on your way, we'll be on ours, and no one'll hear from us that we saw you. Sound fair?"

Olivia took in his stained and tattered clothing. In her determination to humanize his physical appearance, she had overlooked his plain dark jumpsuit—the kind worn by prisoners. She was looking at the escapee who had warranted a high speed pursuit by seven police cruisers and at least a few helicopters, one of which could be heard several miles off, even now. She tried to recall what Amanda had mentioned about him, but only came up with a single detail: murder. Vicious, bloody, all-American murder.

"Where you from, girl?" he asked Amanda in a tone avuncular but rough-edged. The scary uncle who loved to torment his young relatives. "Not from these parts, I take it. Wish they'd busted me down home, I can't stand the way they talk up here."

"Georgia." Amanda grasped the back of Olivia's coat, as if planning to drag her through the entrance when he made his move. Because, despite his sneery half-grin and chipped front tooth, he was coiled and ready to strike. He twitched with it. "Itty bitty place by the name of Loganville."

"Well, shit," he drawled, elongating each word with an exaggerated twang.  _We-he-hell shee-yit._  The verbal equivalent of a knee slap. "You were practically in spittin' distance, little sister. I'm from up Marietta way. And a little bit of everywhere in between, once the army got hold of me."

"That right?" Amanda sounded so natural, it would have been easy to believe she was catching up with an old friend, had Olivia not known better. And if not for the detective's death grip, urging her closer and closer to the doorway. "So, whaddya say, soldier? Cut a Southern girl a break?"

Orion grinned fully now, deep crow's feet forming in the corners of his eyes, shades lighter than the surrounding skin. Each crease that appeared on his face only strengthened its resemblance to faded leather. It hardly seemed fair for such a man to have that many laugh lines. "I tell you what, I like you, blondie. I'm gonna let you get a head start, see whatcha got. You make it out of these woods on your own, I'll leave you be. But your little girlfriend there stays with me. I'll catch up to the other one later."

He leaned farther out on the railing for a better look at Olivia, sucking at his slanted tooth. "You the one I heard screeching and carrying on upstairs? You got some mighty healthy lungs, sweetheart."

Despite the heavy layers of her hoodie and coat, Olivia felt exposed as his suggestive gaze traveled to her chest. She hadn't been self-conscious about her breasts since they first developed, but now she became hyperaware of them—and of the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra—and it made her want to crawl out of her own skin. She clenched the padlock until the sensation went away and her hand ached. She wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but her tongue couldn't produce the words.

"That's good, I like screamers," he said. "Criers, bitters. All kinds, really. Had to shut your friend up too quick, didn't want her spoiling the surprise. Shame, she had a set of lungs on her too. Great big ones. And those eyes. Mm-mmm—"

( _Better than red— NO! This was Orion, not Lewis. A regular man, not one of her monsters._ )

"You got some real pretty eyes yourself." Orion stood to his full height, resting his palms on the railing, arms straightened as if he were about to do push-ups. He smacked his hand soundly against the wood. "Come on up here so I can take a closer look. What are they, brown? Been a while since I had me a brown-eyed girl."

"Liv," Amanda whispered sharply, now tugging with her full strength. She succeeded in pulling Olivia backwards a couple of paces, then lost her grip on the slippery coat fabric.

"Or I can come down there to you."

Olivia watched him fulfill the declaration, clearing the high porch rail like a hurdle and landing with a meaty thud in the grass several feet below. He lacked grace, but his balance was sure and he didn't waver. She heard Amanda chanting her name, begging her to snap out of it and RUN!; felt herself being hauled away by the waist, the slender arms that enclosed her much stronger than they looked. She was aware of it all—and at the same time, aware of nothing else but the padlock in one hand and the tire iron in the other. When the timing was right, when he was exactly where she wanted him, she dug her heels into the dirt, halting Amanda's strained and staggering progress. Then she cocked back her arm and hurled the padlock directly at his face.

And suddenly, he was the one screaming. "Ahhh, FUCK!" he bellowed, reeling back a step and clutching his chin as blood spurted from a wide gash right across the middle.

Olivia had been aiming for the other front tooth, but chin would do. This time she spun around to face Amanda, shoving her through the open doorway and launching in after her. She made it past the threshold just as the sound of his clomping work boots charged up behind her. She pivoted to throw her weight against the door alongside Amanda, but a violent jerk sent her crashing backwards into it instead.

He had caught her by the hood, his arm pinned between the partially closed door—Amanda was doing her best to hold it, driving her shoulder into it, feet struggling for purchase in the dirt—and the fence it sealed off. Ferocious as a rabid dog, he shook her and snarled, "Oh, bitch. You're gonna regret that."

Twisting in the direction of his unrelenting fist, Olivia brought the tire iron down like a hammer into the crook of his elbow. It took several more blows for him to release her, and even then he didn't retract his long, thrashing arm. When he curved it around the door, hand splayed open on the flat surface in an attempt to muscle his way through, she smashed at his fingers and wrist with the metal bar until she heard bone snap. He roared in pain and withdrew his entire arm before she could see what she'd broken, but it had been enough: the door slammed shut, and Olivia pressed her back to it, legs braced out in front of her.

Like Amanda, she found few footholds under the leaves and twigs, sliding gradually down the door as Orion heaved himself against the opposite side. Between the two of them, they could barely hold him back—Amanda taking wide, lunging steps with her arms out, as if she were pushing a boulder uphill, and Olivia seated fully on the cold ground, pedaling backwards in the dirt and stone. The door snapped open and closed like a huge pair of gnashing jaws every time Orion rammed into it. Olivia gritted her own teeth to prevent them from clacking together with the jerky movements, head whiplashing ruthlessly on her neck. When Daphne ran forward to help, mashing in between the taller women, the additional weight made little difference. Forget the rabid dog, this psychopath was as strong as a damn ox.

But even oxen got tired. After a few more attempts to plow his way through, he resorted to pummeling the door with his fists and bawling a string of foul obscenities, most centered around the female anatomy. Then finally, there was complete calm. The three women regarded each other tensely, breathlessly. It was too much to hope that he had left—Olivia knew that, of course—but when his voice broke the silence, she flinched as if he'd yelled in her ear.

"I oughta just shoot y'all right through this door and be done with it," he said, speaking loudly to be heard over the high, solid fence. "But I like to look a bitch in the eye when I put 'er down. Watch that light go out. I've done men too, but there's something extra special about killin' a woman . . . That pleadin' way you stare up at me, like you might still change my mind. It's real sweet. Dumb as hell, but sweet. Y'all are gonna look at me like that tonight, one way or another."

Olivia put a finger to her lips, signaling for the others not to answer. He wanted it too much. When a beast craved fear, you didn't just walk up and feed it to him. And sure enough, their failure to respond brought forth another onslaught of profanity and fury at the barricaded door. It didn't last as long as the first, but it was twice as punishing. Olivia's entire body went numb from the harsh, thumping vibrations.

"All right then, suit yourselves. Better hightail it on outta there, blondie. Deal's a deal." A scraping sound, a clink of metal. The padlock fell into place against the door with a dull thud. Now they were the ones locked out. "Oh and, brown eyes? I'm saving you for last."

 _Not if I get you first_ , Olivia vowed, grip tightening on the bar across her lap. She prayed to God she didn't have to use it again—and if she did, for the strength to use it well. And this time, to finish what she started.

"Oh my God, he's going to kill us," Daphne whispered after several moments passed without a word from inside the fence. She bent forward at the waist, both hands on her knees, and took sharp, wheezing breaths. "We're gonna die. We're gonna die."

"Shh, nobody's dying, Daph." Amanda patted the clerk on the back, encouraging her to breathe more slowly, meanwhile casting a nervous glance down at Olivia. "But we should get moving. He's gonna come looking."

Taking the hand Amanda proffered, Olivia used it and the tire iron as leverage to hoist herself up from the forest floor. Her legs were flimsy and feverish after pumping them so madly during the skirmish; she felt as though she'd jogged five miles on pure concrete. Good thing she had been hitting the gym regularly for the past year, otherwise they never would have held.

She motioned for Amanda to lead the way, collecting herself and Daphne—the clerk tramped along obediently at her side, like a small, lost child—and following the blonde's rapid, skillful stride into the heart of the woods. There was no sense in turning back now. In the off-chance they did manage to pry the door open and Orion wasn't waiting for them on the other side, a dark, dead house and untold wilderness would be. At least this way, they had a clear destination in mind, a potential refuge.

The Clines were older, and older people liked their security, especially rich ones. With all the surrounding woodlands, Mr. Cline could very well be a hunting enthusiast. Personally, Olivia found the so-called sport barbaric, but she was feeling particularly feral at the moment anyway. In fact, she was operating on pure instinct, the thoughts that did make it through to the logical part of her brain basic and raw: run, fight, and if given no other choice, kill. She had experienced a similar level of adrenaline many times on the job, but never so intensely as when she stood over William Lewis with the iron rod in her fist. It had only been her life on the line, then. What would she be capable of in defense of another—of Amanda Rollins?

(Whatever it took.)

She put a hand out to shield her face from the branches and brush that snagged at her hair and clothes as they crashed through a denser patch of forest. Amanda was a few paces ahead, weaving in and out of the obstacles with expertise. The cell phone still glowed in her pocket, darting like a firefly through the trees, coaxing Olivia and Daphne to catch up. They made it to the stream in record time, splashing across at the most shallow section the detective could locate on short notice. Water still seeped over the tops of Olivia's boots, soaking her socks and instantly turning her feet to ice. She longed to stop and empty the boots—now containing at least an inch of cold water apiece—but pressed on instead. She'd get warm and dry later, when they weren't on the run from a madman.

Somewhere far off, Olivia heard the helicopter again, but whether it headed towards or away from them, she couldn't say. She feared it was the latter, since the aircraft had already done a sweep of this area well over an hour ago. It might not come back at all tonight, and they were so far off the beaten path, there was no hope of flagging down a vehicle on the road. If things didn't pan out at the Clines', they were in for miles (and miles and miles) of these godforsaken woods . . .

The prospect was too grim to dwell on. She pushed herself harder, faster, and when they came to a steep incline several yards from the stream, she made it to the top first, turning to offer the other two women a hand up. She almost lifted Daphne right off the ground, but Amanda fell into her arms, winded, and had to be stood back onto her feet. "Okay?" Olivia asked, puffing just as heavily as the detective.

"Yeah. Thanks." Amanda clasped her by the elbows for a moment more, then they were off again, struggling to keep up with Daphne. Although short of limb, the little clerk was surprisingly lithe and had apparently gotten her second wind. She remained in the lead for what felt like another mile, but had to be less, because the Clines' house was suddenly visible in the clearing up ahead, looming out of the darkness like a ship on a foggy sea. No more warm, inviting lights. But then, it was one or two in the morning, so the residents were most likely  
( _dead_ )  
asleep. Olivia hoped they weren't heavy sleepers.

Upon reaching the forest edge, the women paused to catch their breath—in under a minute, two at most, they had crossed a stretch of rugged terrain at least the length of a football field—and surveyed the grounds ahead. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, though it was difficult to tell in the dark and without a prior visit by which to judge. The absence of a privacy fence troubled Olivia, but not everyone was picky about keeping out prying eyes. Tucked away this far from civilization, it probably seemed unnecessary.

"Sunroom might be open," Olivia whispered, pointing to the French doors that gave onto the gazebo-shaped room. They blended in with the window grids that comprised the entire structure, providing a sort of camouflage entry. It was amazing the things people forgot to lock up when they thought no one could see.

"Shouldn't we knock first?" Daphne asked, wide-eyed at the prospect of breaking and entering. Hopefully minus the breaking.

"We get inside where it's safe, then worry about introducing ourselves." Amanda studied the sunroom, nodding along with Olivia's assessment. It was a much closer jog than the front door, and it provided a nearly 360° view of the outside, without actually being outside. Good plan. "Ready to run?" the detective asked of both women, though her gaze rested on Olivia.

"Ready," Olivia confirmed, gearing up for a sprint. She had just caught her breath from the previous one, but the workout sessions were paying off—her endurance had gone up considerably since her last footrace with a perp. She could make it another twenty yards, no sweat. Hell, as amped up as she was right now, she could probably make it another twenty miles.

"I'm not," Daphne said, but assumed a running stance beside Olivia.

After a final glance around turned up no sign of Orion, they ran. One by one, they dispersed from the trees at breakneck speed—Olivia's long stride putting her front and center of the trio; Amanda flanking to the left, a few steps behind and the least sheltered on the wide open lawn; Daphne bringing up the rear on the side nearest the woods—and each unaware of the idling car engine until it was too late. It revved to life somewhere behind them, the high beams blaring on just as suddenly, overexposing everything in their path with blinding white light.

Olivia's eyes didn't have time to adjust to the new bleached out world in front of her; she heard the car surging forward, whisking gravel and then dry winter grass from the tires, its approaching lights far more menacing than any shadow. They reflected off the sunroom windows, twice as brilliant and twice as disorienting, but providing a glimpse of the car's trajectory—right down the middle, full speed ahead. And straight at her.

Veering sharply to her left at the last possible second, she felt a hot, hulking presence graze past her hip with incredible force, like an angry great white shark tearing after prey. She anticipated an explosion of pain, razor-sharp teeth sinking into her flesh, shattering bones, but instead found herself smoothly tossed aside by the momentum. The collision that came was with Amanda, the two of them thrown together as gracelessly as chum on the waters, tumbling head over heels into the brittle grass.

And now, the pain—shooting upwards from elbows, knees, back, and neck, and meeting behind her eyes in a supernova that dazzled the senses. She wanted to cry out, but couldn't find the breath to do it. Her arms and legs refused to move, and for a moment, she knew with certainty that she was paralyzed from the neck down. She'd never get to play catch with her son again, or push her baby girl on the swings. She would never take Amanda in her arms and hold her close, free of fear or shame or flashbacks . . .

Oh God. Amanda.

The wind knocked out of Olivia's lungs returned with a harsh gasp, and she sat bolt upright in time to see a black Mercedes swerving away in the opposite direction. It appeared the driver had lost control of the vehicle, until a thin shriek was cut short by a horrible, nauseating thump, and something soared several feet backwards into the woods. It lay there, deathly silent and still in its mint green kimono. The bastard had intentionally swerved to hit Daphne. But he'd also misjudged his ability to stop before reaching the trees himself: the car bucked over a small mound of earth, its front tires momentarily airborne, and plowed into a tree with an unceremonious crunch, the hood crumpling like paper around the sturdy trunk.

Olivia blinked dazedly at the scene, then over at Amanda. Sprawled out on her stomach, the blonde was propped up on one elbow and clutching her head with the other hand. She stared at the steaming, rattling Mercedes as it emitted a series of loud ticks and finally, stuttering in protest, gave up the ghost.

"Daph," she grunted, pushing herself up onto her knees. That was as far as she made it, her balance still off from somersaulting across the hard ground. She dropped to all fours, attempting to crawl towards her immobile friend.

"Wait." Olivia grabbed the detective's coat, her fingers almost too numb to clutch at the fabric. Both arms were atingle, her shoulders on fire. She hated to think what that crash landing had done to her old injury, but first she had to make sure she lived— _they_  lived—long enough to find out. "He's waiting on us to go over," she said, her eye on the totaled vehicle. There was no movement inside, but the airbags had deployed and the car hadn't been doing more than forty. Orion was alive. Men like him always had luck on their side.

"She's hurt. We can't leave her there." Amanda broke loose from Olivia's grip and started towards the colorful heap that Daphne lay in, just visible beyond the trees. They would have to go around the car, taking them farther away from the house and putting them directly in Orion's path, to reach the other woman. They'd be sitting ducks, and Daphne might not be alive once they got there.

Olivia couldn't let that happen, even if Amanda hated her for it. The detective probably thought she had seen it all, heard it all—been there, done that, got the t-shirt—during her tenure with SVU. But there were things she couldn't imgagine; things that violent, depraved men were capable of, and it changed you, and it made death seem like a comfort, a wish.

No, Amanda would never know that terrible hopelessness as long as Olivia still had breath in her lungs.

She put her hand out to stop the blonde, but a loud screech from the opening Mercedes door saved her the argument: Orion was coming. He lumbered out of the vehicle and stood back to observe the damage with an appreciative whoop, as if he had finished first at Daytona. ("Hot damn, d'you see that? Short stuff caught some serious air!") While he was preoccupied, Olivia sprang into action, leaping to her feet in spite of vehement protests from her entire body. She reached down to gather Amanda's coat and pajama bottoms by the handful, using them to haul her friend into a standing position and, with an insistent push, a moving one.  _Go!_

Met by stubborn resistance, she opted for dragging Amanda along beside her—no easy task, with the detective fighting like a wildcat every step of the way—but when the first gunshot rang out, they were left with no other option but running. There was nothing in the yard to provide cover, and Orion barred entrance to the forest on that side, so they continued on their original path to the sunroom. Too late, Olivia realized she had dropped the tire iron somewhere in the grass when she collided with Amanda. If the doors weren't unlocked, they really would have to break in, and she had lost them their best chance at quickly doing so. Nice work, Benson.

"Okay, little sister," Orion called after them, "I warned ya what would happen if you didn't skedaddle. Hope brown eyes there is worth dying for. If you wanna kiss 'er goodbye, I'd do it now."

The first shot had been a warning. The second missed Amanda by a fraction of an inch, zipping past her shoulder and penetrating one of the thousand glass grids that made up the sunroom windows. A faint  _chink_  and a small, perfect hole belied the bullet's deadly intent—it had pierced the glass at eye level. Despite his earlier claims about preferring to kill up close and personal, he was taking headshots. And he had fairly good aim. Without a single thought for her own safety, Olivia fell back a step and darted in behind Amanda, acting as cover. That pale hair and light pink coat with the firefly glow in its pocket made for an easy target. Maybe the darkness Olivia's mother had seen in her so many years ago would finally pay off.

They arrived at the sunroom doors before a third shot could be lined up—or at least before Orion decided to renege on his promise to save Olivia for last. Of course, he could just as easily put a bullet in her back or leg, and return to finish her off when he was done with Daphne and—  
( _Stop. Just stop._ )

Even from a few feet away, the problem with their plan became apparent. The doors were indeed unlocked, but the glass squares near the handles had already been smashed in, their empty frames dull and blank next to the luster of moonlight on the surrounding panels. Someone else had been here before them, and it didn't take a genius to figure who that someone was. But turning back now would be a death sentence. At least inside they would have some protection from the gunshots and might be able to barricade another entrance.

Amanda slammed the door shut behind Olivia, and together they shoved a nearby couch in front of it. That wouldn't keep him out for long, but if nothing else, it would slow him down. Crouching low, they headed for the entryway that led into the main house. There were doors here too, but they were sliding glass and the latch was a simple flick-and-go, no bigger than a light switch. A child could get past that type of lock, Olivia thought, as she pulled the doors closed and gave the knob a twist anyway. Her deduction ended abruptly when she saw the dark smears on the glass, handprint-sized, and definitely not a child's. The dread that sat like a rock in the pit of her stomach increased tenfold. Mister Cline and his wife had already met Orion, of that Olivia was now certain.

"He's gonna get in," said Amanda, gazing at the stains on the glass. Neither woman needed a flashlight to identify the substance; nevertheless, the detective took the phone out of her pocket and shined its light at the door. Swirls of blood decorated both sides of it, and much of the floor below, like huge red blossoms painted on a canvas. Poppies, perhaps.

When Olivia's thoughts strayed to Amelia Cole and the sadistic artwork that had been recovered from the warehouse—seven paintings total, each depicting the women Calvin had raped and murdered, and an eighth one, snow white, meant for Olivia—she shook her head hard, dispelling the images. "I know," she said, and turned away from the sickening flowers that smelled like old pennies.

"We should check the other doors."

And before the words were completely out of Amanda's mouth, she and Olivia hurried for the front room. The similarities to Meredith's house went beyond exteriors; the layout of the Clines' home was nearly identical to the lodge. Still, wandering from room to room in almost total darkness felt weird and hallucinatory to Olivia, as if she had walked into her own nightmare. It was tempting to try a light switch or a lamp along the way, but that would only alert Orion to their whereabouts, and the absence of any electronic illumination told her he'd probably cut the power here too.

As soon as they got to the living room, she was thankful for the darkness. The smell alone made her want to retreat. One of the Clines—or maybe both—had voided their bowels when they died. Bowels that we're now outside of their bodies. Like Meredith, the elderly man and woman were seated upright, though with the amount of blood that soaked the carpet around them, it was impossible to tell if they had expired that way or been posed. Probably the latter, given their neatly centered position in front of the archway, as if they were on a stage. They were both hunched forward, staring down in horror at their unspooled entrails from eyeless sockets, their silver heads tilted in opposite directions. They reminded Olivia of discarded puppets, no hands or strings to animate them.

"Oh, God," Amanda said, cupping a hand over her mouth and nose. With the other, she trained the cell phone light on the older couple, seemingly unable to look away.

Averting her eyes, Olivia went to the front door—she had to edge her way around the blood, which stretched as far as the hallway where she stood—and made sure the deadbolt was secured. When she resumed her spot at Amanda's side, the detective had barely moved a muscle.

Crime scenes were never pleasant, although some were worse than others. Usually it was the children. But nothing prepared you for the eviscerated grandparents whose happy, loving family smiled down at them from photos on the wall. And there was a big difference between getting called to the scene as a cop, and discovering one as an unarmed civilian. It made you feel small, helpless, ill-equipped. Years of experience went right out the window in the face of such senseless carnage. Olivia knew the phenomenon well, had been at its mercy more times than she cared to count, and she could see Amanda struggling with it now. She put a hand on the blonde's shoulder. "Come on, Detective," she said softly.

"He must have been over here the whole time," Amanda muttered into her palm. She spared another moment for the massacred couple, her features twisted in revulsion, then she turned away, gathered a deep breath, and became Detective Rollins once again. "Back door."

The residence may have been elegant and orderly prior to the horrific violence so recently visited upon it, but not anymore: what wasn't lying in shambles on the floor was overturned or shredded, deep gouges lining the walls like claw marks, and the overpowering stench of urine wafting from the wreckage. He'd marked his territory. And Amanda was right—this level of complete and utter destruction took time. Those lights that had burned so warmly in the Clines' windows all evening were a distress signal, not a display of wealth or greed. When had he killed them? While the neighbors were playing games and getting high? Or while Olivia threw herself at Amanda like a drunken fool?

They had just approached the utility room, in the same remote corner as the one next door, when a loud, persistent scratching brought them to an abrupt stop. It sounded like something sharp digging through wood, and Olivia half-expected to see an ax blade or a power saw come ripping through the basement door at any second. She glanced around for the heaviest, most dangerous object available, and spotted a baseball bat among the ruins of the laundry, not far from a pair of child-sized cleats and a mud-stained jersey. One of the Cline grandchildren must be preparing for Little League tryouts. As Olivia scooped up the bat, which had been used to pound the washer and dryer until they crumpled like beer cans, she tried not to picture Mr. Cline coaching his grandson. She tried not to think about her own son, baseball lover that he was.

"Hang on, I know that sound," Amanda said, gesturing for Olivia to lower the bat. She waded through the messy room, tripping over the leg of a decommissioned ironing board, sliding on a puddle of blue detergent, but making it to the other side intact. A snuffling at the bottom of the door was followed by a high-pitched whine and more scratching.

As soon as Amanda opened the door, a large dog with cream-colored fur shot out of the basement like a rocket, crashing through the debris as if it weren't even there. Olivia was no expert on dog breeds—never having owned one herself—but if she had to guess, she'd say this one was a golden retriever. It barreled past her, ignoring her attempts to grab its collar and Amanda's calls for it to "sit" and "stay."

"Dammit," the detective said, tromping back through the room and starting after the animal.

Olivia opened her mouth to object—they needed to keep moving, to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the hell in that living room—but she couldn't walk away and leave the poor dog alone with its dead owners, either. It was too cruel to even consider.

She followed after Amanda, retracing their steps to the front of the house, every muscle in her body screaming at her that they were going the wrong way. Once again, she was ignoring her instincts—as she had when Lowell Harris lead her down to the basement, when William Lewis crept through the shadows of her apartment, and when Amelia Cole had shown her that awful mural painted in her honor—and the consequences could mean life or death. One day her luck would eventually run out. But as she watched the dog pawing at the corpses, licking their waxen, gory faces, and pouncing at the ground in agitation, her heart broke for the orphaned creature. Everything it loved had been taken away, and it knew.

"Shh, come here, girl," Amanda said, kneeling outside the pool of blood that still squished beneath the canine's prancing paws. She held out her hand, making encouraging sounds and patting a dry section of hardwood floor in the hallway.

Whimpering, the golden retriever hopped from one foot to the other, as if it were trying to free itself from a bog. It didn't seem able to find its way back across all the blood. Setting the baseball bat down, Olivia knelt beside Amanda and tried her hand at calling the dog over: "They're gone now, sweetheart. Come."

After a slight hesitation and an anxious glance back to see if Olivia was correct—they really were gone—the dog obeyed. Tracking red paw prints onto the hardwood, it squeezed in between Olivia and Amanda and sat down, gazing up at them with mournful brown eyes. Amanda turned its collar around to reveal a small nameplate attached to the leather circlet. "Gigi," she read aloud, flashing the cell phone light on the glint of etched silver. "So you are a little lady, huh?"

"Good girl, Gigi," Olivia murmured, joining in on the vigorous scratches Amanda administered to the dog's ears and back. She was about to place a kiss atop the furry head, when a low and ominous growl rumbled in Gigi's chest. Olivia didn't have to look to understand why. She could feel him behind her.

She reached for the bat and drew it across her knees, gripping the handle so tightly her fingers felt fused to the wood. She was prepared to turn around swinging, but a light tapping sound made her flinch and peer cautiously over her shoulder. Orion stood outside the sliding glass doors where the bloody poppies bloomed. In one hand, he held the pistol that had belonged to Meredith; in the other, he brandished the tire iron that Olivia had dropped in the yard, tapping it against the door until he had their full attention.

"See you found the other blonde," he said, yelling to be heard as Gigi let loose a fury of barks and snarls, her teeth bared and hackles up. "Knew I shoulda killed her, too. But I've always liked me a good dog. Too bad you can't trust a bitch."

He punctuated the last word by smashing the tire iron against the glass. A hairline crack appeared in the thick pane, snaking off from a dime-sized chip in its surface. Not all that impressive, but a few more blows of that magnitude and he would be through the door and on them. Shooting out the glass would have saved him a lot of time and effort, but Olivia had learned long ago not to dwell on the reasoning of madmen. This one just liked to break things.

People, too.

Grabbing Gigi by the collar, Olivia tried to drag the livid animal down the hall as another stroke of the tire iron opened up several more fissures in the door. Seventy pounds of golden retriever turned out to be a lot more difficult to control than the human equivalent. With Amanda's help, Olivia managed to get the dog as far as the kitchen before it broke free and charged back towards the steady whacking sounds that soon gave way to an almost musical tinkling as the first glass shards fell. Sharp little raindrops, Olivia thought, gazing sadly after the dog as Amanda caught hold of her wrist and pulled her in the opposite direction. Away from the storm.

"We gotta let her go, Liv," Amanda said, plunging ever forward, through a maze of hallways and past more rooms—an office, a library, an arcade—than most people would know what to do with. They didn't even glance at the staircase on their way by. Lots of places to hide up there, but also no exits, unless they went out a second story window. A very high second story.

Meredith had opted for parking in the driveway at the lodge—closer walk to get the luggage upstairs, and simpler than going back outside when it got too late—so a tour of the garage and nearby rooms had been deemed unnecessary. Now, as she and Amanda opened one wrong door after another, Olivia wished she'd studied her surroundings a little better. Normally she memorized every point of egress in new places, a habit picked up on the job and even more so after being assaulted, but she hadn't wanted to seem paranoid. Next time, if there was one, she would swallow her goddamn pride.

They were down to the last door when Gigi's barking intensified, the dog sounding half mad with rage, its spitting snarls wolflike and lethal. He was inside. And a second later, the gun rang out with its own lethal sound, cutting the barks short on a final yelping note. Olivia fought back the urge to release a scream as enraged as Gigi's. She knew it then, deep in her bones she knew it: before the night was through, she was going to kill this man named Orion.

"That's another thing about you bitches," he hollered, his voice stationary at first, but increasing in volume as he resumed the hunt. "You won't shut up unless someone makes you. I'd never have known y'all were over yonder if I hadn't heard you out there in the woods, laughin' and screechin'. Woulda been on my way, none the wiser. But I just moseyed on over and watched you cuttin' up like schoolgirls—kinda cute, really—then walked right in. Y'all even left the fence wide open for me, ain't that a hoot?"

 _Fucking hilarious_ , Olivia thought as she and Amanda struggled to lift the garage door. Orion's exposition had given them enough time to climb over the accent table wedged sideways in the doorway to the garage; to discover that—despite the Clines' extravagant wealth—the Mercedes parked in the tree outside was their sole vehicle, at least on this premises; and to confirm that the power had indeed been cut (the wall switch failed to raise the electric door, no matter how aggressively it was pushed). Like the rest of the house, the garage had been ransacked, and whatever Orion did to the door prevented it from being raised more than a foot. No one over the age of twelve was going to fit through there.

( _Daphne might have . . ._ )

Another quick sweep of the room with the cell phone light revealed a door panel tucked in the far right corner, but a large storage rack had been tipped at an angle in front of it. Hundreds of pounds worth of tools and other heavy machinery were jumbled together at the back of each shelf. Even if they were able to prop the steel unit upright long enough to slip under without getting squashed, the noise would be tremendous, announcing their position.

( _And batting 0 for 4, we have Lieutenant Benson. So far she's struck out on phone, car, gun, and exit. Can she bounce back in this final inning or will she—_ )

"Window," Olivia whispered, spotting the gleam of moonlight behind a thin curtain above the workbench. She headed for the imposing wooden table, which stretched along the entire back wall and stood a little above waist height. Just high enough that she had to use the pull-out drawers underneath as a step stool, then hike a leg up and vault onto the tabletop with the other, leapfrog style.

Ignoring her protesting limbs, she helped tug Amanda up beside her, and they went to work opening the window. Thankfully, the Clines had spared no expense on installation—the frames were as modern as everything else in their home, and the window slid up seamlessly. The screen popped out with a satisfying snap. It was the drop on the other side that concerned Olivia. Six feet, maybe more. Not death-defying, but the potential for a bad landing on the garden rocks below made it risky.

She could live with a twisted ankle. The chances of surviving whatever Orion had planned for her were a lot less optimistic. And he was getting closer, his progress accompanied by a cacophony of smashing, tearing, crashing, and his gruff twang shouting out taunts ("I'll make yours quick, blondie. Can't have 'em saying I did wrong by a Georgia gal," "Got a big ol' rod with your name on it, brown eyes. Nice and hard. Wanna feel?").

Olivia waved Amanda to the window, wanting to secure the detective's escape before her own. "Rollins," she hissed urgently when the blonde spun around instead and scurried to the end of the workbench. "What are you—"

"Left my knife at the lodge," Amanda whispered as she hurried back, wielding a Phillips-head screwdriver plucked from among the tools on the storage unit. She stuck it in her coat pocket, perched herself on the windowsill, then leapt without so much as a glance down.

 _Reckless_ , said the part of Olivia's brain responsible for evaluating her officers on their performance. It was a word she'd used many times in the past to describe Detective Rollins on paper, mostly during her stint as sergeant. Now that she actually knew the blonde—so much more than a loose cannon with a pretty face—the assessment was tempered by admiration and more than a little pride. Next time, she would write:  _Fearless._

_Resourceful, efficient, trustworthy . . ._

Distracting herself with more adjectives ( _dedicated_ ), Olivia tossed the baseball bat out the window and followed after it ( _tenacious_ ), scooting to the edge of the sill, inching the window down behind her as best she could, and pushing off ( _resilient_ ). She hit the ground hard, crouching into the impact. It sent jolts of pain through her ankles and shins, just as she suspected, but nothing felt sprained or broken when Amanda helped her up ( _loyal_ , she added to the list).

"Hope you got good night vision," said Amanda as she took the cell phone from her pocket and extinguished the light.

"We'll see."

Bat firmly in hand, she took off at a jog with the detective by her side and trying 911 again to no avail. She cast a glance over her shoulder at the partially open window, hoping that Orion would overlook it and assume they had squeezed out under the garage door. That put the front of the house off limits, forcing them into the woods at the back. Woods that might stretch on uninterrupted for miles in that direction, with only the capricious moon as a guide. Or they could take a chance, circle back around to the front, and pray that Orion didn't catch up on the main road. Neither option was particularly favorable, but in the end, Orion chose for them:

"Okay, girls, I like a chase as much as the next fella, but how's about we wrap this thing up," he called out the fully opened garage window as he started to crawl through.

He looked too big to fit, but Olivia didn't wait to find out. She and Amanda were halfway across the backyard; they swore in tandem ("Son of a bitch!" and "Fucking hell," respectively) and ran the same way, straight for the stand of trees that waited ahead like barkers outside a dark and sinister carnival, beckoning with long, knotted fingers.  _Come in, my dears. Nothing to fear this way._

Olivia had never liked those men—the wandering eyes and hands, the catcalls and lewd comments—but now she entered their midst willingly, tolerating all the slaps, pokes, and pinches that came at her. God, it was hard to see in here. She realized she was holding onto Amanda's hand, but when that had happened, she couldn't say. They took turns pulling the other up hill, over rock, and through underbrush that caught at their boots and dropped them to all fours. Branches shredded their cheeks and hands, but they pushed on until they reached a fallen tree trunk so large it required shinnying across on their stomachs. When they landed breathlessly on the other side, Olivia sank down against the log and shook her head.

"I gotta stop for a second," she panted, resting the bat against her bent knees, and her head against the bat. All of her earlier bravado was gone. Her entire body hurt, and she couldn't catch her breath. It was becoming a struggle just to put one foot in front of the other.

"Okay. It's okay," Amanda said gently, though her voice held a tight, anxious tinge, even at a whisper. She crouched down next to Olivia, stroking the back of her hair. "Just breathe. We should listen for him anyway. Figure out where he is."

Other than her own ragged breaths and a distant helicopter, Olivia didn't hear anything for at least a full minute of silence. If Orion was following them, there should be some indication—snapping twigs or rustling leaves, at the very least. He was a big man with no propensity towards subtlety. Then again, he'd had the stealth to escape prison, to stalk four women without tipping them off, and to kill Meredith without a sound. He could be quiet when he wanted to be.

The thought of him out there, watching and waiting like some nocturnal predator toying with its prey, made Olivia shudder. She was so tired of running. From men and monsters.

"We're gonna make it out of this, Liv," murmured Amanda's voice near her ear. An arm slid around her shoulders, pulling her close. "I told you once I'd always have your back, remember?"

"Yeah." Olivia turned her head to look out from her huddled position. "I remember."

"Well, I keep my promises. I won't let him touch you." Amanda leaned in and pressed a kiss to Olivia's forehead. "I won't let anyone hurt you like that ever again."

Too exhausted for tears, Olivia laid her head on the detective's shoulder and concentrated on breathing in and out. She knew Amanda couldn't keep that promise, not truly. But having someone who cared enough to make it, someone who  _loved_  her so fiercely—that was everything. "Amanda, I . . . "

Whatever she'd been about to say—a mystery even to herself—was lost amid a sudden maelstrom of sound and bright light. Wind kicked up a cyclone of dirt and debris from the forest floor, the gust so strong it snatched away what little air Olivia had in her lungs. The throbbing in her ears was worse, each revolution of the propeller blades creating a deafening whir overhead. Helicopters. More than one. They were buzzing the treetops nearby like giant dragonflies skimming a pond, searchlights illuminating the ground in erratic circles, casting the forest in strange, otherworldly relief. They were also moving in the wrong direction, unaware of the two women hunched together behind the huge tree trunk, in a sea of huge tree trunks.

"I see a clearing," Amanda shouted over the noise, pointing ahead several yards to an empty tract of land where the trees gave way to solid rock.

It was an uphill climb, but it would put them on higher ground, increasing their chances of being spotted. ( _And not just by them ol' choppers, brown eyes._ ) Olivia jabbed the tip of the bat into the dirt and forced herself to stand. Then to run. Then to climb. It didn't get any easier, but it became more mechanical with every step, until she was keeping pace with—and occasionally surpassing—her detective. Only when they had breached the clearing did she slow the forward momentum, skidding to a halt at the sight before her. They stood on a wide outcropping, the drop-off so sheer that Olivia couldn't see the bottom. In the daytime, arriving there on a leisurely hike, the view would probably be called breathtaking. Majestic, even. In the dark, with danger lurking at every turn, it looked like the yawning mouth of hell. Another four or five feet and she would have plummeted right over the edge.

She threw her arm out in front of Amanda, who gasped and reeled back a step when she finally saw the cliff. "Geez—" she said weakly, leaning up on tiptoe as if she had to peer over Olivia's arm to see into the chasm below. Wide-eyed, she cast a grateful look up at Olivia, then focused on the sky behind her—the searchlights were fading into the distance—and gestured emphatically. "Where the hell are they going? Goddammit!"

Amanda kicked at a pile of loose stones, sending several tumbling over the ledge. If they ever landed, there wasn't a sound to prove it.

"Now, is that any way for a good li'l Southern gal to talk?" asked a gruff voice somewhere in the darkness. A second later, Orion sauntered out from the trees as casually as if he'd been leaning there the whole time, in wait of Olivia and Amanda's arrival. He probably had been. Who knew how long he'd spent out here, learning the lay of the land, prior to his attack on the Clines? He didn't seem at all surprised by the drop-off as he approached, gun aimed at the women. He took turns pointing it at both of them, then singled out Amanda, leveling the muzzle a few inches from her face. "Didn't your mama teach you no better?"

"She tried," Amanda said tremulously, her palms up in surrender at her waist. "But my daddy fucked that up right quick."

Head tossed so far back his face disappeared from view, Orion let out a crowing sort of laugh that made Olivia's skin prickle with goosebumps. She wanted to jam the baseball bat into his big fat hick mouth and not stop till it came out the other end, but she couldn't risk the gun going off in Amanda's face. Concentrating on the weapon until everything else around her—forest, moon, man, and yes, even the woman at her side—became little more than background noise, she waited for its muzzle to twitch just a few inches to either side. The moment it did, the very second he let his guard down—that's when she would use the bat, not stopping until he was done talking for good.

"I like you, blondie. I really do," Orion said with a hoarse chuckle. He wiped a thumb across his watering eyes, using the hand holding the tire iron.

In the back of Olivia's mind, it registered that three of the fingers on that same hand were crooked and swollen. So that's what she had broken. She almost smiled, but then the gun made its move—and there was no time to react, because now it pointed directly at her face. Like before, the rest of the world melted away, and it was just her and the gun and the black void straight down the middle like a single dark eye. She waited for it:

_Click._

Instead, she felt a rough prodding at her shoulder when Orion poked it with the socket wrench end of the tire iron. "Jury's still out on you, brown eyes. Lord knows you're a feisty one"—he thrust out his bloodied chin—"and a real looker too, but you ain't said much. S'matter, pussycat got your tongue?"

When she didn't respond, he jabbed her shoulder again, then reached for her mouth like he meant to pry her lips apart and see for himself what the pussycat had gotten hold of.

"Don't you fucking touch her, you piece of shit," Amanda said in a low, poisonous tone, all semblance of Southern charm gone. Her hand hovered near her coat pocket, the shank of the screwdriver just visible—if you knew where to look.

"Hey, brown eyes, listen here." Orion ignored the detective's warning, taking Olivia by the chin with the fingers she hadn't broken. When she tried to jerk away, he pinched down harder and turned her face sharply in Amanda's direction. "Tell this little Georgia hellcat she better watch her mouth, or I'll put more'n my fingers in you."

The smell of sweat, blood, and cold hard steel drifted up from his hand, making Olivia's stomach churn. Her attackers had each had their own unique scent, which came back to her often and at the most inopportune moments. Harris was musty blankets, cheap cologne, and the urine that permeated every corner of Sealview; Lewis was Lucky Strikes, vodka ( _Just Like Mom Used to Make!_ ) and burning flesh; Arliss was paint thinner, stale warehouse air, and semen. But they all shared one common fragrance, and you sensed it down deep in your bones, rather than smelled it—the terror. Orion reeked of it.  _Please, God_ , she prayed.  _Please._

He was talking again—always talking—but she didn't hear him anymore (No need, they all said the same thing in one way or another:  _I can go for hours with a ripe little cunt like you . . . Mmm, better than red velvet . . . I've dreamed of doing that since I was twelve years old . . ._ ), she only felt his brutal grip at the back of her neck as he forced her onto her knees. And the steel of the gun as he pressed it to her forehead. The bat slipped from her fingers, clattering to the ground as she prepared herself to be violated once again, or to die. The two weren't all that dissimilar, really. Both were an end to life as you knew it.

"What's that?" Orion asked, nudging at the bat with the toe of his work boot. "Pick that up and lemme see."

Olivia opened her eyes—she'd refused to kneel there, staring at nothing but his crotch while she died—and cast a sidelong glance up at Amanda. It was difficult to be certain in the dark, but she thought the blonde gave her a small, affirming nod. The screwdriver was nowhere in sight.

_Copy that, Detective._

"Don't look at her," Orion said in his dry husk of a voice. He transferred the muzzle from the middle of her forehead to just under her chin  
( _better way to go, less likelihood of ending up a vegetable, although roof of the mouth was best_ )  
forcing her to gaze up at him. "Those brown eyes belong to me, now. And when I tell ya to do somethin', you sure as shit better do it, you uppity New York bitch. Pick it up."

He raised his fist and cuffed her against the side of the head as motivation. It stunned more than it hurt, and she drew a deep breath through her nose, clearing the brain fog that tried to settle in. She couldn't afford to check out now, while his gun hand was pointed away from her. "Okay! Jesus," she choked, shrinking from him with a whimper that wasn't hard to fake. "Just . . . please don't hurt me."

"Well, I'll be damned. She can speak, after—"

With a tight grasp high on the barrel of the bat, she drove the wider end into his groin with all her strength. From there, when he doubled over and expelled a single grunt of pain liked a coughed up morsel, it was easy to knock the gun out of his hand. She made a mad grab for the weapon as it skated across flat rock, headed toward cliff's edge.

But she'd forgotten about the tire iron. He brought it down on her wrist first, freeing her of the baseball bat and any further notions of picking it back up, her fingers locked into a stiff claw by the pain. That was nothing compared with the wildfire he ignited on one whole side of her face, backhanding her so hard she toppled sideways, tasting blood. On top of everything else, the bastard appeared to be ambidextrous, capable of an equal amount of force with either hand. As if to prove her theory, he raised the tire iron again  
( _bludgeoning, such an ugly way to die_ )  
but the third blow never came.

Peering cautiously from behind the arms she'd curled around her head to shield it, she saw Orion lurching from side to side like he was on a rolling ship. At first she didn't understand why, until Amanda's blonde hair fanned out over his shoulder—the detective's arm was looped around his neck, squeezing, her legs encircling his waist and hooked in front at the ankles. She jammed the screwdriver into his side and lower back with quick, vicious little thrusts, like she was diligently chipping at a block of ice. Olivia counted at least seven stabs before he let out a roar so loud the very trees seemed to tremble at the sound. Reaching around with both hands, he yanked Amanda off his back and over his shoulder as if she were weightless, laying her out flat at his feet. And so close to the drop-off, her boots dangled over the edge.

Olivia's heart leapt into her throat, blocking the scream that tried to escape. She scrambled onto her hands and knees, searching for one of the weapons that had been tossed aside in the fray. Her eyes fell on the gun, itself inches from the cliff and almost pretty in the silvery moonlight. Before she could crawl towards it, Orion jerked the screwdriver out of his side and sank it into Amanda's abdomen.

This time, Olivia screamed. Shoving onto her feet, she prepared to charge him. It had been her go-to method of taking down men larger than herself since she was ten years old, rushing the stranger who dared to lay hands on her mother. When you didn't have any others at your disposal,  _you_  became the weapon. She'd known it instinctually, even back then, and it had served her well ever since. Now it might kill her, if she faltered so much as a single step, or if he took her down with him, but at least she would die knowing she'd rid the world of this man.

She ran.

And three steps later, she stopped dead in her tracks, and stared. Something large and white had sped past her. Something that snarled and bared its fanged teeth.  _Wolf_ , she guessed immediately, but that didn't make sense. Wolves didn't selectively attack humans as this one did, bypassing her to clamp its teeth onto Orion's upper thigh. Then she saw the bloody, matted fur near the front shoulder, heard the familiar jingle of a dog collar:

_Gigi._

No matter how hard Orion tried to kick the dog off, she refused to let go of his leg. He teetered dangerously close to the edge, cursing with such vehemence his sun-dried voice became a nails-on-blackboard shriek. Amanda was lifting her head, hands wavering near the screwdriver protruding from her belly. She pulled it out by the handle, flung it away, and rolled over, inching forward in an army crawl. Olivia ran again, and didn't stop until she reached her friend's side.

"Amanda," she said, needing to hear the name out loud, to reassure herself she hadn't lost the person to whom it belonged. To whom, she'd come to realize over the course of an evening, her heart belonged. She dropped to her knees, heedless of the rock below and the wide black nothing beyond. "Careful, honey, you're hurt."

"I'm okay. Coat got most of it." Amanda groaned as she propped up on one elbow, turning just enough to display a dimpled tear in the puffy pink material. No bloodstains. At least not yet. "Go help the dog," she said, pushing at the hand Olivia placed on her shoulder.

"Huh-uh, not leaving you," Olivia said, echoing the detective's previous words back to her.

Gigi did need assistance though, her attempts to wrestle Orion to the ground valiant but unsuccessful. His sleeves and pant legs were ripped to shreds, blood spatter painting the rock around him red as he thrashed in drunken circles to throw the dog off—and remained standing. Olivia chose the opposite tack, sitting down and extending her leg to drag the gun closer under the heel of her boot. For a moment, vertigo overtook her as she gazed into the emptiness that waited to mindlessly swallow anything thrown its way.

As a child, she'd loved games requiring skill and coordination, one of her favorites a wooden maze through which a small steel ball could be navigated by shifting levers on the outer frame. The object of the maze was to avoid letting the ball roll into any of the various holes along its path. She used to play that game for hours. Now, as the earth slanted beneath her, she knew exactly how that little silver ball must have felt.

The dizzying sensation faded when the gun was in her hand. She turned back around in time to see Orion sucker-punch Gigi in her wounded shoulder. With a sharp yip, the dog tucked in her tail and finally retreated, hobbling towards Olivia and Amanda. But Orion hadn't given up the fight just yet; he snatched up the tire iron he'd lost while tussling with Amanda, and stalked after the dog, the bar cocked high above his head.

"Drop it, asshole," said Olivia, pistol trained at center mass. No way in hell was she going to waste precious moments trying to incapacitate the bastard with a shot to the kneecap—if three broken fingers, seven stab wounds, and countless dog bites hadn't slowed him down, one bullet in the leg wouldn't make a difference. And she couldn't risk a headshot, not in the dark, not even with that eerie calm stealing over her once again, steadying her hands. Best to aim for a larger target. There were enough vital organs in the torso to suit her fine.

He paused to squint at her, running his tongue along that damned chipped tooth as he smirked, but not lowering the weapon.

"I said put it down, Orion," she ordered, enunciating each vowel in his name (it drove her nuts when people did that to hers). And louder, when he still didn't comply: "Now."

"You ain't gonna shoot me, girly. I'll admit, you two are a helluva lot more scrappy than what I'm used to, but I bet you ain't never shot anybody in either of your little rich bitch lives."

Now it was Olivia's turn to smirk. "Try me," she said, voice going soft with barely contained rage. She stroked the trigger like it was the bridge of her daughter's nose, that delicate and unformed curve she loved to graze her fingertip against, eliciting sweet, fairylike giggles. God, how she wanted to hear that sound again. To kiss the angelic little face that looked up at her with so much trust and so much love.

Unconditionally.

If Orion thought his hands were full with a couple of scrappy women, he had no idea what he was up against threatening two mothers whose children waited for them at home.

"Oh, I will," he said, at last lowering the tire iron, only to make a vulgar gesture with it near his crotch. He swung it back and forth idly for a second, looking thoughtful. "Don't usually mess with the gals like that, but I'll make an exception for you. Someone needs to take you down a peg."

"Come near me again, and I'll take you down a peg." Olivia aimed at his genitals, her finger curling fully around the trigger, itching to squeeze. Dark or not, smaller target or not, she could make the shot. ( _Harris . . . Lewis . . . Arliss . . ._ hissed a voice in her ear.)

"Liv, don't," Amanda said quietly. She pointed toward the sky. "Listen."

It took all of Olivia's willpower to ease up on the trigger and cock her head, waiting to hear something that would drown out the other voice—that awful, sibilant tongue whispering dead men's names like an incantation. Somewhere, a few miles off, the drone of helicopters had resumed. From the sound of it, they were retracing their previous route and getting closer by the minute.

"Hear that?" she asked of Orion, unable to resist a bit of smugness. She loved the looks on their faces when realization finally dawned that they were wholly and inevitably screwed. "They're coming for you, big guy. Be here any second."

His smile didn't even flicker. "Guess I better be right quick about this, then," he said, and lunged forward with frightening speed, tire iron at the ready.

Olivia was quicker.

She fired three rounds to the chest—silently repeating an incantation of her own:  _heart, heart, heart_ —and would have gone on firing until the magazine was spent, if Orion hadn't staggered backward several steps, teetering on the edge of the cliff.

"Brown-eyed bitch," he muttered. And then he fell. (Damned if it didn't look like he had taken that last step back on purpose.)

Despite her hatred of the man and her desire to see him dead, Olivia's breath caught as she watched him slip from sight. It left altogether—her breath—along with every other anchor that kept her grounded inside her own body, when Amanda went with him. His hand was clasped around the blonde's ankle, dragging her towards the drop-off on her stomach. She clawed frantically at the rock with audible scratching noises, finding nothing to grab onto. Her rubber boot came off halfway over the edge, but by then it was already too late, the motion of her legs swinging forward into  
( _Hell_ )  
open space carrying the rest of her with it.

They were complete bullshit—those movie montages where the lovers' entire journey from meet cute to final parting flashed before the protagonist's eyes in emotional, aesthetically crafted images. All you saw at the end was the end. Cold and dark and so terribly cruel. Olivia had never been a fan of tragic love stories.

Operating solely on reflex, she pitched aside the gun—still hot and smelling of cordite—and dove forward like she was sliding into home. She seized at one of Amanda's hands as they coasted over the smooth, round lip of the cliff in a last-ditch effort to hold on. Olivia's fingers closed around something ( _wrist?_ ) and she pulled.

These days, the most she could typically dead lift was one hundred pounds, and that was while standing, not sprawled on her stomach with God knew how many feet of air stretching out below. But she pulled with every ounce of strength she could muster, crushing the toes of her boots against the rock, the thick rubber providing just enough traction to inch backwards a little at a time. It was like downclimbing without holds or ropes. Still, she pulled.

She pulled until her vision went gray and spotty; until she felt the tendons in her left shoulder separate from the muscle, a deep ache making her entire arm throb like a rotten tooth, and she knew her previously injured rotator cuff had just torn as easily as tissue paper.

And, crying tears of frustration and great exertion, she pulled until Amanda's other hand clamped down on her arm and the blonde reappeared by degrees: first, her head, straining into a chin-up position on the ledge, face flushed and dripping sweat; next, an elbow, and the hand on that side pawing at Olivia's coat, using it like the knots in a rope ladder; and finally, with a mighty tug that drew grunts from both women, one leg hooked over the rock, the other joining it a moment later. Amanda was up—and then she was down, prostrating herself on the firm ground as if she were worshiping before an altar.

Crawling away from the drop-off, Olivia made it only as far as Amanda before her limbs turned to jelly. She collapsed next to the blonde, cradling her rotten arm and staring up at the sky without seeing it, the helicopters drowned out by the sound of her and Amanda's panting. Soon, they were accompanied by a third, as Gigi limped over to lay her head between theirs, giving the cheek on either side a gentle lick. She rested her head on her paws with a heavy sigh when neither woman reacted, both still trying to catch their breath and allow their heartbeats to resume a normal rhythm. If such a thing were possible after literally dangling off the side of a cliff.

It took several minutes, and neither of them would be making any sudden movements for a good deal longer, but finally Amanda lifted her head enough to gaze over Gigi's snout and say, "Thanks."

Olivia would have laughed if it hadn't required the use of stomach muscles. Or lungs. Though her arms and shoulders had borne the brunt of the lifting, her whole torso felt like it had gone a few rounds with a heavyweight fighter—one whose fists were solid rock—after the abuse it took from the outcropping. "How's your stomach?" she asked, but found herself unable to look away from the stars twinkling above.

"I think it fell out back there. I'm fixin' to go get it." Amanda didn't move so much as an eyelash. "Any minute now."

"Ow," Olivia groaned. Even a silent chuckle was painful. "I'm serious. He stabbed you."

"Didn't go very deep. Probably just needs some stitches."

Knowing the detective, she would have made the same claim, regardless how dire the injury. But she was alert and responsive, and Olivia hadn't seen any blood on the front of her coat before she belly-flopped onto it. Of course, there were things Olivia sometimes overlooked. For instance, she suddenly realized the constellation she'd been gazing at for the past five minutes was none other than Orion. The great hunter. She pried her eyes away from the trio of  
( _bullets_ )  
stars on his belt, turning to face Amanda—or what could be seen of her around Gigi.

"Hey, Rollins? For future reference: I hate the damn mountains."

"Copy that, Lieutenant."

When the helicopters arrived, searchlights bathing the outcropping in crisp alien light, women and dog huddled together against the propellers' blast. They didn't leave each other's side until they touched down just as the soft rays of dawn broke over the city.

**. . .**


	10. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to save this till tomorrow, but I changed my mind for reasons. :) I hope you all have a wonderful weekend and enjoy reading the chapter. Thanks for the comments on chapter 9!

* * *

 'Cause I can only tell you what I know  
That I need you in my life  
When the stars have all gone out  
You'll still be burning so bright

\- Sarah McLachlan, "Answer"

**. . .**

"Now kiss."

\- Daphne Tyler

* * *

 **CHAPTER 10:**  Interlude

**. . .**

The puncture wound, though star-shaped, was ugly as sin. Amanda grimaced as she peeled the bandage back further, examining the blood and watery drainage that still oozed from the hole near her navel. It had already stained the gauze with red and pink psychedelic swirls. The colors of Valentine's Day. Hardy har har.

It hadn't needed stitches, as it turned out. That Orion prick didn't even have the decency to get close enough to any major organs for her to walk away with a cool story about the scar she'd be stuck with for the rest of her days. From here on out, she'd be Detective Amanda Rollins: Stabbed by a Screwdriver. They would probably Sharpie in a little "LOL" next to it in her jacket. And she could forget about showing off her abs in a bikini next summer, although she hadn't done much of that since Jesse was born anyway.

"At least it wasn't a flat-head," she sighed, and carefully replaced the gauze, wincing as she smoothed down the medical tape. Technically, she wasn't supposed to tamper with the bandage in the first place—had been given strict orders not to by the nurse, who must have sensed her tendency to peek—but curiosity got the better of her.

She'd been an avid scab-picker, sunburn-peeler, and tooth-puller as a child, never one to shy away from the unsavory or the painful. As an adult, she'd had enough of both in the past twenty-four hours to last her a lifetime. She felt like one giant bruise, after being body-slammed onto a literal rock-hard surface, then dragged across it as if she were a roped calf on branding day. Her nails were also shot to hell—chipped and worn to the nub from clawing madly at said rock. Of her various scrapes and contusions, the one that hurt least was the bop on her nose from Olivia. Not broken, just swollen.

She might be a little worse for wear, but she had fared the best of the four women who went into the woods last night: one didn't come back at all, one had months of recovery ahead from multiple fractures sustained by a motor vehicle impact, and the third was currently sleeping off the anesthesia from arthroscopic surgery to repair a torn rotator cuff. Olivia had reluctantly opted for the procedure after an MRI confirmed a full-thickness tear that would likely impair her left arm range of motion. Not exactly a death sentence for a right-handed cop, but unacceptable for a female lieutenant who couldn't allow her job performance to be brought into question: by the brass or herself. When the doctor started throwing around words such as "desk duty," "sling," and "four to six weeks"—and that was just the immobilization stage; full rehabilitation could take as many months—Olivia almost backed out. It had taken Amanda half an hour of promising that she, Fin, and Carisi would pick up the slack before the lieutenant finally relented. Even then, Amanda suspected consent was only given so she would have to leave the room and get checked out by a doctor herself.

"Joke's on you, boss lady," Amanda murmured to the deeply unconscious woman, who wore a pouty little frown in her sleep. Cute. "You're stuck with me."

It was a relief to see her actually getting some rest, even if she had to be knocked out to do it. The real challenge would be later that evening when she was released from out-patient recovery and sent home with her children and the memories of that nightmarish trip to the Catskills. Oughta be a blast on top of the RTS and the post-op pain. And knowing Olivia, she would try white-knuckling it to avoid prescription opioids (high addiction rate) and antidepressants (major stigmas attached, especially among law enforcement). Well, she might change her mind by the time Amanda was through. No way in hell was she going to let Olivia face all of that alone. If it meant becoming a squatter in the lieutenant's apartment, she was damn well prepared to do it.

Hopefully it wouldn't come to that. But it brought the tiniest smile to her lips as she imagined the scenario playing out: herself in charge, bossing the boss around; Olivia ready to throttle her, but healing—mentally and physically—and secretly happy with the arrangement; the little ones making them both crazy in a good way; and the dog(s) eating up every last bit of the delicious chaos in Casa de Benson-Rollins.

Rollins-Benson?

Oh God, Daphne had been right. All that Amanda needed now was a Trapper Keeper covered in heart doodles.

"Poor Daph," Amanda said, taking the clerk's cell phone out of her pocket to check the time. She and Olivia would have to wait a few days more for their luggage and other personal effects—including the phones left on the guest room dresser at the lodge—to be released by the local police.

She felt guilty to still be carrying Daphne's cell around, but she hadn't gotten the chance to visit her friend yet. The little brunette was a banged up mess when they brought her in. A banged up mess, but alive and immediately wheeled off to surgery for extensive repairs on dislocated fractures in both legs. If Orion had accelerated just a little faster, Amanda would have been attending a funeral instead of planning a trip to the gift shop later to buy flowers and trashy tabloids. It looked as though the clerk was going to get the bouquet Olivia mentioned, after all.

Amanda leaned back stiffly in her chair. It was adequate, as hospital furniture went, but her wound and aching muscles made finding a comfortable position almost impossible. She told herself to suck it up—she wasn't the one lying in a hospital bed or facing months of physical therapy—and rested her head against the vinyl upholstered chair back. She watched the muted television for a while, some soap with hackneyed plots she didn't need sound to decipher, and was about to drift off when a stirring of bed covers snapped her to attention. Molten lava surged through her abdomen and she sucked in a slow, whistling breath, wound momentarily forgotten as she sat forward in anticipation of Olivia waking.

Several minutes passed with no further activity, and then, as Amanda was daydreaming about finding the energy to pull over another chair to prop her feet on, Olivia's eyes fluttered drowsily open. They wandered around the room a few times, gazing at nothing in particular—oh yeah, she'd gotten the good drugs—until coming to rest on Amanda. Still not fully awake, the lieutenant regarded her with a sullen, almost suspicious side-eye, as if she might be staring at a blonde impostor. Amanda had seen the look before, on the rare occasions she'd happened upon her boss dozing while on a case, usually in hospital corridors at ungodly hours, and gotten saddled with the task of waking her. (Honestly, Amanda didn't mind. She rather enjoyed sleep-mussed Benson.)

"We gotta stop meeting like this," she said, offering a soft smile as Olivia blinked her into focus. It was a corny line, but she didn't care. After the night they had survived, a little bit of humor was necessary to counteract all that awful. There would be time enough to reflect and process later. Maybe too much time, in Olivia's case.

"Thought I told you to get checked out," Olivia mumbled, her voice as raspy as a cinematic mobster's. She cleared her throat dryly. Traipsing through the woods and inhaling lungfuls of helicopter dust hadn't done her allergies any favors.

"Already did." Amanda lifted the hem of her shirt and hooked a finger into the waistband of her pants, drawing it down to reveal the bandage underneath. Her pajamas had been in tatters after all the abuse they endured, and she now sported a pair of hospital scrubs—at least until Carisi showed up with her real clothes, Lord help her. Whatever he picked out would have to be better than the AstroTurf green she was currently wearing. She hoped.

"Your surgery's over, darlin'," she said, then mentally kicked herself for including the affectionate term. It was one thing to call Olivia by a pet name as a form of comfort or to be cheeky, but it was quite another to start slipping it into normal conversation with the boss. Especially when you still weren't sure she felt the same way. Luckily, Olivia seemed too out of it to notice. Taking advantage of the grogginess, Amanda hastened to add: "Doc said it went great. You'll be able to go home once you've rested a bit. And you should eat something."

That last part was prescribed by Amanda herself, not the surgeon. She wouldn't be satisfied until she got some food into Olivia's belly. Though it might not cure everything, she firmly believed a good meal and a good night's sleep would put the lieutenant on the right track for the long recovery process ahead. She was thinking like her mother again, she realized—or at least like a good little Southern housewife—but food and sleep were remedies even she couldn't disagree with. Mainly food.

"Not hungry." Olivia had roused enough to see—and hear, as Amanda sighed much louder than necessary—that she was in for an argument. She blinked heavily, her eyes staying closed for a long time. Just when it appeared she'd gone back to sleep, she said, "But I'll try. Did you need stitches?"

Gloating at the assent, Amanda relaxed against the chair, smug smile undermined by her cautious movements. "Nah. Nurse patched me up, gave me a tetanus shot. I'm good to go."

"Then why aren't you home with your girls?" Olivia attempted a stern look, but it was the least intimidating thing Amanda had ever seen. None of the typical Benson fire. Just tired brown eyes and the same pouty little frown from her sleep.

"Because I'm here . . ."

 _With my other girl_ , Amanda thought, but didn't work up the nerve to say it. Hinting around about her feelings should at least wait until the other woman's head didn't sway like an infant's whenever she tried to hold it up for more than ten seconds. Instead, Amanda finished, "With you."

"I'll be fine. You should be with your daughter—"

"I'm staying." Amanda folded her arms stubbornly across her chest. Both limbs were weak and shaky from the strain of dangling cliffside and being lifted almost single-handedly by Olivia. But it had taken a much bigger toll on the lieutenant, and then some. "I'm the reason you're in that bed, and I'll be here when you get out of it. Besides, someone has to take you home and make sure you have everything you need."

Olivia started to protest, then caught a glimpse of the abduction sling she was strapped into like a harness. It was a bit of a monstrosity, the thick foam pillow that supported her arm making the whole rig appear twice as prominent. It looked supremely uncomfortable and she looked supremely annoyed by its presence. "Ugh," she groaned, dropping her head against the much more deflated pillow at her back. "Fine, you win. But only because I'm too tired to fight you on it. And because I honestly can't remember where the hell I live right now."

"Don't worry, I got ya covered," Amanda said, chuckling. She stifled a groan of her own as she rose from the chair, walking as stiltedly as a robot towards the bedside table to pour the lieutenant some water. Even the small plastic jug felt heavy, and half of the liquid she poured in an unsteady stream from its spout wetted her hand on the first try. She shook the water off and presented the cup to Olivia, who had just as much trouble getting it to her lips as Amanda had filling it. They made quite the pair.

"Thanks." Olivia closed her eyes and took another long swig, then pressed the side of the cup to her forehead. She winced when the cool plastic touched the red stippling that started near her temple and darkened to a hefty bruise the size and color of a plum at her cheekbone.

More of Orion's handiwork, but Amanda couldn't help feeling responsible for that too. She never should have dragged Olivia along on the damn trip in the first place. The lieutenant hadn't wanted to go, and if Amanda hadn't pushed her into it, she wouldn't be battered, bruised, and confined to yet another hospital bed. "I'm sorry, Liv," Amanda blurted before she could stop herself. She managed to hold back the tears that pricked at her eyes, but just barely. Okay, so maybe the emotions and the exhaustion were catching up with her, too.

Olivia glanced up in surprise at the marked change in Amanda's lighthearted tone. "For what?" she asked, sounding genuinely baffled. Her sleepy confusion and wide-eyed gaze gave her an innocent, childlike vulnerability, only heightened by the cuts and bandages and that big ugly sling. She was fighting dirty, whether she meant to or not.

"I made you go on that stupid trip. I was being selfish because I wanted to spend time with you, and I . . ." Amanda bit down on her bottom lip, but the words were already out. ( _So much for keeping a lid on those feelings, Rollins._ ) She let her shoulders sag inside the pine green scrub top, which probably offset her reddening cheeks rather nicely. If she never saw another nature shade again in her lifetime, it would be too soon. "I messed everything up. Including you. Your shoulder would be fine if not for having to save my lard ass."

Though listening intently, Olivia wore an unreadable expression. After a moment, she drained the remainder of water from her cup and then put the crinkly plastic aside. "Amanda, when have you ever been able to make me do something I didn't want to do?"

"Um . . . never?"

"So, why would this time be any different? I went along because I wanted to." Olivia's right hand—wrapped in fresh gauze to protect the gashes she'd incurred from the mirror—rested close to Amanda's hand on the edge of the mattress. She slid it over gradually, curling her little finger around Amanda's when they met. "With you."

Heart thudding almost as wildly as it had when she was hanging from the cliff, Amanda took it a step further and interlaced each of their fingers, her hand on top. She brought the other over to cradle beneath the lieutenant's palm.

"And everything else I did, I did because I wanted to," Olivia added, with a meaningful look. "Even if I went about some of it the wrong way. But there's nothing I regret. That includes saving you, messed up shoulder or no. Also, if I ever hear you refer to yourself as a lard ass again, I'm docking your pay."

"Yes, ma'am." Amanda couldn't resist flashing her prettiest dimpled smile, the one that had helped her out of some tough scrapes as a child—and, on occasion, as an adult too. But it faded when she noticed the expression on Olivia's face.

The lieutenant looked as if she'd just been socked in the gut, what little color she did have dwindling away. Amanda turned sharply—and immediately wished she hadn't,  _ouch_ —glancing up at the small flatscreen television mounted high on the wall. A somber newscaster mouthed a story off the teleprompter, but it was the bold headline beneath him which had captured Olivia's attention:

3 Dead, 3 Injured as Manhunt Continues

"They still haven't found him?" she asked, her voice so hoarse and whisper-thin that parts of the question were inaudible.

After their rescue by helicopter, one of the pilots had informed Olivia and Amanda that the drop-off, though astonishingly high, extended over a large body of water. The fall would likely kill you, the pilot assured them—while making eyes at both of them, Amanda had noted with disgust—but there was still that  _sliiiim_  chance of survival . . . That was how he'd said it: "sliiiim," as though elongating the vowel qualified it as a delightful little anecdote. The true delight would be finding out Orion's body had been recovered, but as of the women's arrival in Manhattan that morning, he'd yet to be located. By divers or on the ground. Fin was keeping Amanda updated via text, but no progress had been made so far.

"Not yet," Amanda said gently, and stroked her thumb over Olivia's fingers. "But his body'll wash up somewhere. There's no way in hell he survived, Liv. I felt that screwdriver go in—I had to at least've nicked a kidney or something. And you got him good. All that, and the fall on top of it? He's toast."

"Yeah . . ." Olivia's eyes lingered on the screen for several more seconds, taking in the aerial shots of Meredith's lodge, the Clines' residence, and both demolished vehicles. When those were followed by video footage of the outcropping where they had nearly perished, Olivia turned an uneasy gaze on Amanda. "I hope so."

Before Amanda could offer anymore reassurance, a knock at the recovery room door interrupted the conversation. She recognized the cheerful tapping ("Shave and a haircut . . .") even without a peek onto the other side.  _Stellar timing, Sonny boy_ , she thought sarcastically, and switched off the TV with the remote control and call button combo attached to Olivia's bed by thick, unwieldy cable. Hesitating on her way to the door, she presented her boss with another winning smile, and said, "Don't be mad, okay?"

Olivia arched her eyebrow, instantly wary. "Rollins. What did you do?"

"I may have invited a few friends to stop in and say hi," Amanda said quickly, then hurried over to answer the second knock ("Two bits . . .") before the lieutenant had time to object—or to cuss her out.

Stepping aside, she waved in the small troop of visitors who were waiting outside the door, bearing gifts and ear-to-ear grins: Carisi led the march, a large bouquet of pale pink tulips balanced on one arm, and little Matilda—just as sweet and dainty as the flowers—seated in the other; Noah and Jesse followed closely behind, holding hands ( _Oh, Lord_ ) and trailing a shiny Mylar balloon apiece, one shaped like a baseball and the other like a pacifier, the legend "It's a Girl!" slanted across the front. Well. At least it wasn't difficult to tell which kid had picked out which balloon.

"Mama!" cried both little girls in unison, Matilda stretching her slender arms in Olivia's direction, while Jesse skipped forward and wrapped Amanda into a tight bear hug around the middle. It hurt like the dickens, but it was well worth the pain, to see that adorable face beaming up at her.

"Hey, baby girl!" Amanda leaned down far enough to kiss her daughter atop the head, stealing a few extra strokes at the silky golden strands that extended past the child's waist. One of these days, the five-year-old would need her first haircut. But not today. Amanda kissed her again, then reached for the balloon string. "That for me?"

Jesse snatched the balloon aside protectively. "Nuh-uh, it's for Aunt Livia. She's hurted, Mama, not you." Despite the questionable grammar, the little girl was quite sure of herself as she trotted over to the bed and her "Aunt Livia" (she never had mastered the "O" at the beginning, but it was an improvement from her original pronunciation: "Wivia").

"Okay then," Amanda said in a huffy tone, though more amused than offended. She stood back for a moment, smiling to herself as she watched Olivia light up with unmistakable joy when Carisi placed Matilda on the bed beside her. The toddler crawled onto her mother's chest—Olivia waved Carisi's hands away when he tried to intercede—and threw both arms around her neck, planting a kiss square on her lips. The sound of Olivia's delighted laughter at the emphatic greeting was confirmation enough that inviting the children had been a good decision.

"Oh my goodness," Olivia sighed into the toddler's bouncy red curls, closing her eyes as she hugged Matilda to her for a very long time. "What a perfect thing to wake up to. Thank you, my love."

Never one to be left out of anything—even a mother-daughter bonding moment with the wrong mother—Jesse tugged at Carisi's pant leg until he gave her a boost onto the bed as well. "I buyed this for you," she said, thrusting the balloon string in Olivia's direction. "It says 'Get whales soon, Aunt Livia! I love you! From Jesse!'"

Olivia glanced up at the floating pacifier, and somehow managed to keep a straight face, though her eyes twinkled with suppressed humor when Carisi muttered, "She made me get it, Lieu." He obediently took the string that Olivia handed over, and tied it to the safety rail on the bed.

"I love it. Thank you, sweetheart." Olivia leaned forward as far as the sling and her daughter's tiny body—snug at her right side—would allow, and kissed Jesse's comically puckered lips. When both girls were settled into place against her, Olivia looked to Noah with a hopeful smile that didn't quite conceal her apprehension. He had been hanging back from the group in silence, studying each of them and his surroundings with wide, earnest blue eyes.

"Hi, baby," she said softly, and motioned for him to come closer.

He shuffled forward to stand at his mother's bedside, his chest pressed to the mattress, fingers curling around the frame. "Hi," he said, fiddling with an edge of blanket as he cast surreptitious looks at Olivia's sling and the bruise on her cheek. He poked at the bedding a few times, jerking his hand back as if expecting retaliation. Then suddenly, he ducked down beside the mattress, just his eyes peering over the edge. "Are you okay?"

"Mm-hmm." Olivia reached out to tousle the mop of curls that sprouted up next to her. "But I'd be even better if I could have a hug from my guy."

Finally, Noah's dimples made their debut. He popped up with a grin, clambered onto the bed by himself, and found an empty spot near Olivia's hip to lean in for a squeeze. "Does it hurt?" he asked, examining the sling so closely his nose practically bumped it.

"A little. The doctor gave me some medicine though, so that helps. I'll be good as new before you know it."

Although it was the answer Amanda expected—and the same one she would have given, if asked—she shook her head.  _A little_. A portion of the woman's body had literally ripped apart, and she said it hurt  _a little_?

Dear Lord, Amanda loved this woman.

It took a moment for the thought to register in her mind, and when it had, she repeated it to herself without reservation: she was in love with Olivia Benson. A wonderful and daunting realization. Wonderfully daunting. Much like the lieutenant herself. Amanda felt a sappy smile spread across her face, but she was powerless to stop it. She ignored the strange looks from Carisi and went on enjoying Olivia's interaction with the children.

Noah tugged on the balloon string in his hand, causing the inflated baseball to dance overhead. "This one's from me and Tilly. It doesn't say anything," he explained, tying the string in a loose knot alongside the other balloon, "'cause I couldn't find one that said 'I'm Sorry.'"

"I sorry," echoed Matilda, oblivious to the meaning behind the words, but smiling with pride at having remembered them. She removed the finger she'd been chewing from her mouth, pointing its slobbery tip at Olivia's bruised cheek. "Owie, Mama?"

"Yes, baby, Mama's got some owies." Olivia patted the little girl's hip, shrugging her over to drop several kisses into her wispy ringlets. She rested her uninjured cheek against Matilda's head—the toddler snuggled closer, always ready for affection—and wiggled her fingers at Noah, encouraging him to take them. For a moment, he regarded the bandage on that side with uncertainty, then he gingerly cupped her fingers with his palm.

"What do you have to be sorry for, sweet boy?" she asked with such tenderness it made Amanda's heart ache. How the lieutenant could ever question her mothering skills was inconceivable. They were as natural and intrinsic to her as breathing. As strength and integrity.

"For what I said about Lucy . . ." Noah glanced over his shoulder at the other adults in the room. He lowered his voice to a stage whisper, leaning towards his mother confidentially. "I don't really want her to adopt me or Tilly. I was just mad. I'm glad you're our mommy."

Olivia lost the battle with her tears almost immediately, but smiled through them as they fell. She brought Noah's hand to her lips, kissing the back of it soundly. "I'm glad too," she murmured, when she found her voice again. "So very glad."

"I'm sorry too," Jesse piped in, the poignancy of the moment and the silence that followed—during which, even Carisi swiped at his eyes—completely lost on her.

"Good Lord, Jesse," Amanda groaned, butting her palm against her forehead in exasperation. "Learn to read a room, child."

Chuckling, Olivia shooed Amanda away when she stepped forward to extract her daughter from the family gathering. The lieutenant swept the little girl's long hair behind her shoulder, combing through it and sprinkling the gossamer strands from her fingers. (Amanda marveled at the easy gesture—it was like trying to catch a possum barehanded whenever she so much as showed her daughter a hairbrush.)

"And why are you sorry, Miss Jesse?" Olivia asked, attentively.

Jesse scrunched up her face and tapped her chin in a pantomime of deep thought. "Ummm . . . I don't know yet. But I'm sure I'll have a good reason soon. Right, Mama?"

"No doubt about it, you little varmint."

When the laughter had died down and Jesse was done refuting her varmint status, Carisi gathered the tulips he'd abandoned on the bedside table. What appeared to be a single large bouquet turned out to be two separate posies, and he brandished one in each hand, like a magician pulling flowers from his sleeve, before Olivia and Amanda.

"For both of yous, from all of us," he said, with almost as much pride as the children presenting their balloons. He focused just a bit more of that pride on Amanda, she noticed, as she accepted the flowers. Olivia had noticed, too; her eyes were on the exchange, not the tulips, as she sniffed the bouquet Noah held out to her. She quickly returned her attention to the crowd on the bed when she caught Amanda's gaze.

"Thanks, Sonny." Amanda gave him a distracted smile, trying to be courteous but not overly warm. She cared a good deal for the well-meaning detective—as a colleague and as a friend—and she always would, but there would also be that part of her that always saw him as the overeager SVU rookie with a cheesy mustache. Though they were only a few months apart in age, she often felt decades older. He would be a great husband and father someday, just not with her. She needed something more. She smiled again, widely, this time in the direction of the bed, where Olivia was engaged in deep conversation with all three youngsters.

Much more.

"Oh hey, when's Fin coming with the thing?" she asked suddenly, pointing the flowers at Carisi. She'd almost forgotten that another surprise was on its way.

Wearing a downcast expression at her lack of enthusiasm for his gift, Carisi checked his watch. "Should be any minute now."

"What thing?" Olivia asked, without looking up from her trio of companions. Woman didn't miss a trick.

"Oh, you'll see. You'll love it." Amanda jabbed Carisi with her elbow. "Trust me, it's golden."

He didn't catch on at first, but once the reference sank in, his disappointment was replaced by that boyish Carisi grin. "Yeah, Lieu, it's great. Fin just has to retrieve it," he said, snickering.

Now, Olivia did glance their way, her eyes narrowing. "I don't know what's happening here, but I think you're both fired."

On cue, a casual tap at the door signaled Fin's arrival. Even his knock was laid-back, or so Amanda had believed, until she opened the door to see him swiping aggressively at his black sleeves and slinging the resultant fur off his hands. "You owe me big for this one," he announced, slapping a leash into Amanda's palm.

"Jelly donuts on me, one month," she said, trying to hide her amusement at the sight of big bad Sergeant Tutuola covered in white fluff—and having a hissy about it. She reached down to greet the shaggy culprit with a scratch behind the ears, and received a thorough lick on the hand.

"Make it a year. And you're vacuuming out my car." Fin nudged Amanda aside and poked his head into the room. "Hey, kids, Liv. Glad you're okay. Thought you should know, this wasn't my doing. I'm just the wheelman."

"Where you going?" Amanda called after him when he did an about-face and strolled off down the corridor, patting Gigi the dog on the head as he passed by her.

Fin flicked a brief wave over his shoulder, though Amanda got the distinct impression he would prefer to be flipping her the bird. "I gotta go find a lint roller, maybe some Wet-Naps. Tell Liv I'll be back to see her before she goes home."

"Thanks, Sarge."

"Yeah, yeah."

Grinning down at the dog, Amanda said, "I think he likes you," and lead her slowly into the hospital room. According to the veterinarian, it was a miracle the golden retriever had survived the bullet Orion clearly meant to put through her heart. Thankfully, the dumb bastard knew nothing about canine anatomy or the resilience of a loyal pet. Gigi might have a permanent limp, but the vet anticipated an otherwise full recovery. And as the children—plus Carisi—descended on her, abandoning Olivia to the confines of sling and hospital bed, the dog wagged her tail like she didn't have a care in the world.

"Careful, guys," Amanda warned, handing the leash over to Carisi. "She just had surgery on her shoulder too. No roughhousin'."

"What's her name?" asked Noah, whose face was already getting a hearty spit-shine from the dog as he knelt in front of her. He giggled, bunching his shoulders up to his ears and squinting out of one eye to read her collar. "Giggy?"

"Gigi." Amanda snuck a peek at Olivia, trying to gauge her reaction before leaving the dog to bask in the attention she was receiving from all sides (Carisi and the two older children vied for her affection, each calling her name in turn, while Matilda squealed, "Goggy!" and clapped her tiny hands at a safe distance, shy about approaching such a large animal). The lieutenant didn't appear displeased, but she wasn't brimming with excitement, either. Mostly, she just looked bewildered.

"Easy come, easy go," she stated, a tinge of sarcasm in her tone as she handed Amanda the tulips that had been tossed aside in favor of four paws and a wiggly butt.

Amanda laid both bouquets on the bedside table and gave a light, apologetic shrug. "Dogs always trump moms. If Frannie ever learned to cook, Jesse probably wouldn't give me the time of day anymore."

"How the hell did you even get permission to bring a dog in here?" Olivia asked, a faint smile on her lips as she watched Noah collapse in a fit of giggles while the dog snuffled him from top to bottom.

"I told the hospital administrator she's a member of the K-9 unit, wounded in the line of duty, and coming to visit her partner. He was only too happy to oblige."

"Amanda!" Olivia put on a good show of being appalled by the blatant lie, but a twitch at the corners of her mouth gave her away. She laughed in spite of herself, pressing a hand to her shaking abdomen. "If 1PP catches wind of this, guess whose—" She glanced over at the kids, mouthing a silent "ass" before continuing aloud: "—gets chewed out for . . . conspiracy to commit police dog impersonation."

Yep, those painkillers were really kicking in. Amanda snickered behind her hand for a moment, then feigned an expression of the utmost seriousness. "I promise if it goes that far, I'll take the rap. But I don't think anyone here is going to snitch, do you?"

Everyone in the room went silent at once, waiting with bated breath as Carisi finally coaxed Matilda to reach a hand out to the golden retriever. Gigi gave the toddler's palm an equally tentative sniff, and finding it satisfactory, left no finger unlicked. The little girl stood stock-still, unsure what to make of the odd, slobbery sensation—and then she began to giggle. It was an infectious sound that soon had the older children joining in, while the adults chuckled at three different volumes, depending on the extent of injuries. Gigi sat down and offered a smile of her own, panting happily as Matilda hugged her around the neck:

"Goggy!"

"No, I don't think they will," Olivia agreed, resting back against her pillow with a sleepy little grin. "But how did you work it out with the Cline kids? Shouldn't she be with one of them?"

The Cline "kids" weren't really kids at all, but the adult children of the couple slaughtered in their home by Orion. Amanda had briefly spoken on the phone with the eldest daughter, who was too grief-stricken by the recent news of her parents' brutal deaths to make arrangements for their pet. She'd left it up to Amanda's discretion. It had taken all of five seconds for Amanda to come up with a solution. Now, if she could just play her cards right . . .

"None of them can or will take her. Oldest daughter has a baby and a six-year-old, and 'doesn't want them around a sick animal.' She kinda sounded a little snooty, to be honest." Amanda rolled her eyes. She had no patience for people who didn't like dogs, even if their parents were just murdered. "The son's on his second tour in Iraq, and the youngest girl's allergic. So, that leaves poor Gigi out in the cold, it seems."

Olivia made a sympathetic noise, looking over at the dog, who was currently entertaining the children with her obedience skills ("Shake!" commanded Jesse, giddy with excitement when a paw landed in her upturned palm; Frannie never obeyed that one). When the lieutenant glanced back at Amanda, she did a double take and held up a forbidding finger.

"No," she said, enunciating.

Apparently she wasn't too out of it to recognize an ambush when she saw one.

Amanda assumed the most innocent expression possible. "What? I'm just sayin'. I'd hate for her to end up at the pound. The lame ones get euthanized faster because no one wants to bother with 'em. They just want cute little puppies."

"Then you take her," Olivia whispered. She screwed on a wide, tight-lipped smile when Noah turned a curious look her way. The kid was far too observant for his own good.

"Can't," Amanda murmured from the corner of her mouth. "Frannie doesn't get along with other big dogs."

Okay, that was a fib. Frannie Mae loved dogs of all shapes and sizes; she practically went berserk whenever Amanda so much as breathed the word "park," her favorite place to run and play with every single pup who had the energy to keep up. To tell the truth, Amanda probably would take in the golden, if Olivia refused. But first, she wanted to see how this played out.

"Carisi, then." The lieutenant was beginning to look desperate.

"Liv, she saved  _our_  lives. Don't you like her?"

"Of course I like her. But—" Olivia gestured to her sling, exasperated. "How'm I supposed to take care of a dog with this thing? And where would I put one?"

"Noah's old enough to help. And . . . I could walk her for you," Amanda said, hoping the last part sounded like an off-the-cuff remark, rather than what it was—a shameless ploy to spend more time with the boss outside of work. "And they don't actually need their own bedrooms, you know. Have you never owned a dog before?"

Olivia suddenly became very interested in the design of her sling, fiddling with the shoulder strap and adjusting the Velcro tabs until the ends lined up perfectly.

"Oh my God, you haven't." Amanda clapped a hand over her mouth, feeling like a complete ass. Growing up in Loganville, she and every other kid she knew had at least one four-legged family member. Her father always had some hound or another chained up in the backyard, terrorizing the neighborhood cats and baying at all hours; meanwhile, her mother was fond of small dogs, especially yappy ones that nipped at her children's heels when she wasn't looking. (In Frannie, her sunny little pit bull mix, Amanda had reached a happy medium.) She took it for granted that most people had similar childhood experiences with dogs, but the lieutenant's reticence proved otherwise. "Oh, Liv, I'm sorry."

"Pets weren't exactly a priority in my house. I did have a fish once. And my mom drank like one, so it was kind of the same thing." Olivia gave a dry little laugh, but cut it short at the look on Amanda's face. "Come on, that was funny. And it's not some huge tragedy, Rollins. You and I both know there's a lot worse things that can happen to a kid than never owning a dog."

It was hard to argue with that logic, and Amanda could tell she had hit a sore spot—the lieutenant only made light of her mother's alcoholism when she wanted to deflect from the deep pain it caused her—but there was one last bid to make. She was in danger of overstepping her boundaries as a lower ranking officer; as a friend and someone with Olivia's best interest at heart, she would have to take that chance.

"What about as an adult?" she asked gently, reaching over to still Olivia's hand as it continued to fidget with the sling, the blanket, and anything else in its path. "Dogs can help with PTSD. They can even be trained to wake someone who's having a night terror."

The tension Amanda felt in the restless hand she'd captured began to abate a little at a time, Olivia's expression turning soft and pensive as she observed her children, still fawning over Gigi. The women's entire conversation had been conducted under their breath, far enough away that the little ones couldn't possibly have overheard—and yet, when Noah noticed his mother watching again, he put his arm around the golden retriever and implored, "Can we keep her, Mommy? Pleeeeaase?"

Jesse and Matilda chimed in with their own chorus of entreaties—the latter's sounded more like "peas"—until the room rang out in childish voices that required shushing by all three adults to silence. If they didn't get busted for the dog, they sure as hell would for disturbing the peace. Three sets of wide blue eyes gazed eagerly at Olivia, whose brown eyes rolled accusingly in Amanda's direction, too pretty to be very worrisome.

Still. "I didn't say a word," Amanda swore, hands up in a blameless gesture.

Sighing lightly, Olivia shook her head without lifting it from the pillow. "I don't know, you guys, a dog is a big responsibility," she said in a measured tone, careful not to get anyone's hopes up. But she smiled at Gigi with undeniable affection as she spoke. "You'll have to let me think about it."

"Okay, Mommy." Noah thrust his hands deep into his pockets and hung his head like a lowly guttersnipe denied spare change, but a devilish little grin broke through when he turned and whispered to his companions: "That means yes."

Fifteen minutes later, Carisi had managed to wrangle the children and lure them away from Gigi with promises of ice cream on the way home. Another five minutes were spent on goodbye kisses for mama—or Aunt Livia and Annamandy, depending on which child you asked—and twice as many for the dog. Once the room had quieted, all that exuberance and lovely attention gone, Gigi limped over to rest her head at the foot of the bed, large brown eyes fixated on its occupant.

They stared each other down—the lieutenant and the golden—for another full minute, until Olivia caved, patting her hand against the empty space alongside her leg. Gigi needed no further invitation; she sprang onto the bed, her hindquarters getting a boost from Amanda when they didn't quite make the jump. The dog burrowed in next to Olivia as if the spot had been hers all along, head propped on the slope of one hip, and continued to gaze up adoringly at her potential new owner. Her tail began a steady thumping on the mattress, like the sound of a loud, clear heartbeat, when Olivia stroked her forehead and murmured, "I guess we can recuperate together, huh pretty girl?"

Amanda got the feeling she had just witnessed the lieutenant's heart being stolen right out of her own grasp. She couldn't be too jealous, though. Olivia had plenty of heart to go around.

"Think you'll keep her, then?" Amanda asked, unable to conceal the hopeful note in her voice.

Olivia took a while to answer, her attention on the fuzzy white ear she rubbed between her fingers like a remnant of silk, putting Gigi in a trancelike stupor. "Well, I do kinda have a thing for cute blondes," she said at last, casting a sly glance at Amanda.

Flirting was Amanda's forte. You didn't grow up in the South without learning a thing or two about feminine charms, especially with Beth Anne for a mother. She'd trained her daughters how to play the coquette from a young age, the way some mothers taught their little girls sewing or the piano. Amanda knew just how to maneuver the needle, exactly which keys to press. But for the life of her, she could not untwist her tongue to form a single coy or clever remark when Olivia's words finally sank in.

_Speak, dummy!_

In the end, it was Olivia's next comment that did the trick: "Especially short ones."

"Oh Lord, here we go again." Amanda rolled her eyes with exaggerated annoyance, despite the grin spreading across her lips. "Five-seven is well above average for a woman. In fact"—here, she schooled her face and laid the drawl on thick—"I'm well above average in just about everything, hon."

_Ha! Still got it._

"Who said I was talking about you?" Olivia asked, smirking.

"You got some short blondes up your sleeve I don't know about?" Amanda leaned her elbow on the bed rail and cocked a hip, all swagger—or, as much swagger as the hole in her gut allowed. "Who are they? I'll kick their ass."

"I just bet you would." Olivia smiled up fondly from her pillow, head tilted at a rather adorable angle, features still dreamy-soft from the pain meds. A massive yawn brought the sweet moment to an abrupt halt, displaying the inner works of her mouth, from soft palate to the tonsils she'd apparently never had removed.

"My toxic masculinity boring you?" Amanda asked in amusement. She took up petting the back of Gigi's head and neck when Olivia's rhythmic strokes were interrupted by another yawn—this one covered by her bandaged hand.

"No." After several labored blinks, Olivia sat up straighter and gave a small but resolute shake of her head. Not even sleep would get the better of Lieutenant Benson. "Sorry," she said, and resumed toying with the dog's fur, gathering it into tufts she twined loosely around her fingers. She created half a dozen of the pale little coils, her expression growing thoughtful. Perhaps a bit sad. "Speaking of short and cute. How's Daphne?"

"Her surgery should be over by now. I'm gonna go up and check on her here in a bit." Amanda inched her fingers along the dog's neck, intentionally moving closer to Olivia's hand, until hers grazed against it. "She'll be okay. She's probably already hitting on all the hot lady doctors."

Olivia attempted a lighthearted laugh, but it fell horribly flat. She pressed her lips together firmly and shut her eyes, as if praying forgiveness for such a carefree sound. When her eyes opened again, they glimmered with unshed tears. "Tell her I'm sorry. I never should have left her like that. All I could think about was getting out of there— getting you out of there, so he couldn't . . . I should've helped her."

And there it was. Amanda had known the lieutenant would blame herself for cutting the clerk loose, even though they had no other choice. She knew because she blamed herself for the same thing. It was her duty to protect others, and when Daphne had needed her, she'd been too chickenshit to risk her own neck. Or Olivia's.

Given the chance to do it all again, she would make the same decision every time, if it meant protecting the woman in front of her. "When?" she asked, scooping Olivia's hand into her own, both resting lightly on top of the sleeping dog's head. "While he was trying to run you over with a goddamned car, or while he was taking potshots at us with a nine? If we had gone back for her, he would've killed us and Daphne. I know it doesn't seem like it, but leaving her was the best option. She's alive because of it. And that's what I'll tell her."

Lifting the shoulder not immobilized by the sling, Olivia swiped it under her nose. She clasped Amanda's hand to prevent it from abandoning hers in pursuit of a tissue. "Maybe phrase it a little gentler than that," she said with a hint of wryness.

"I will." Amanda thumbed a stray tear from Olivia's cheek with her free hand. It trickled down the digit and into her palm, where she held it like a drop of balm, smoothing it into her skin with her fingertips. She had something else she wanted to say, and it required all the courage she could muster. But it needed to be now, before anymore of the previous night's ugliness—and all the doubts and fears that would inevitably bring—had time to settle in.

"You know, I was never really mad at Daphne for lying about us being a couple," she said, already hating the searching tone in her voice and the nervous way she kept fussing with Olivia's hand. Flirting was one thing, but discussing real, complicated feelings relied on a whole different set of muscles which Amanda seldom exercised. That steady, perceptive gaze the lieutenant was giving her didn't help matters, either.

But:

"Neither was I," Olivia murmured. She turned Amanda's palm over in hers, tracing her thumb along the scrapes left behind by woods and cliff, as if she could erase them with a touch.

Bolstered by the admission—and the touch—Amanda rested her other hand at the crook of Olivia's elbow, far away from her bruised wrist. (That fucker in the mountains had almost broken it with the tire iron. The bruise where the car had kissed Olivia's hip was even more infuriating; Amanda wanted to stab Orion all over again when she saw that one. This time she'd go for the groin.)

"I know I made a mess of things," she continued, not quite as awkward as before, although still shaky. "Pressed way too hard and didn't listen to my instincts telling me something was wrong. But I hope I didn't scare you or—"

"You didn't." Olivia gently squeezed Amanda's hand to get her attention. Once she had the eye contact she always sought out to convey her most genuine and heartfelt emotions, she said, "You did nothing wrong, okay? I wanted you to kiss me. I wanted . . . I wanted  _you_ , Amanda. I have for a long time, but I didn't know how to tell you, or if you felt the same way. I'm sure you don't, now that you've seen how broken I am—" Her voice gave out then, and she bit down on her trembling lower lip. The tears came fast and heavy, slipping off her cheeks in plump drops that pattered against the stiff fabric of her hospital gown. Gigi perked her head up, instantly alert and concerned by the signs of distress.

Amanda knew just how the dog felt. She had seen far too many of the lieutenant's tears in the past several hours, and each was like a small, vicious pinprick—only she wasn't the one enduring the needle. She had to sit back and watch it slide into Olivia's flesh over and over again.

It was unbearable, and Amanda had to make it stop. "You are not broken, Olivia," she said, taking the woman's chin in hand with the utmost care and brushing the moisture from her cheeks. "A little banged up, sure. But you're going to get through it. I know it doesn't seem like it right now, but if anyone's got the strength, you do. And nothing you told me changes the way I feel about you. Nothing. I still respect you more than anyone I've ever met in my life . . ."

She swallowed hard, heart lodged somewhere in the vicinity of her esophagus. It was not unlike plunging off the side of a cliff or playing a risky hand when the stakes were high, this feeling. Amanda had done both, and almost lost everything in both instances. But in this case, the reward was too great to pass up. She laid all her cards on the table:

"And I still love you."

For a very long, agonizing moment, Olivia's only response was a short intake of breath, too light to be called a gasp, and released without the resignation of a sigh. It was something in between the two that Amanda couldn't quite define, and she began to fear she'd gone right off the edge, into free-fall. But just like before, Olivia reached out and caught her; she slid her hand along the underside of Amanda's arm, pausing near the top and tugging her forward by the triceps. When Amanda leaned in closer, Olivia sat up far enough to place a soft, lingering kiss on her lips. No pressure, just a sweet whisper of contact that lasted seconds but made up for the hours—days, months, years—spent dreaming about it.

They parted slowly, and Olivia took the opportunity to sweep aside the bangs that hung in Amanda's eyes, tucking them behind one ear. When the long strands immediately fell back into place, Olivia smiled with such love in her eyes, all of Amanda's fears were allayed. She could gladly spend the rest of her life making sure Olivia smiled like that each and every day.

"I want you to know I would never break a confidence, either," Amanda said, after an exchange of shy glances and handholding. (Gigi sniffed their interlocked fingers, then went back to sleep.) "I won't repeat anything you told me, to anyone else. Ever."

"I know that," Olivia said warmly, and the certainty on her face—the absolute trust she gave so readily—made Amanda want to weep with gratitude. She wouldn't, of course; but knowing that she had finally restored the faith Olivia lost in her so long ago—that was all she'd striven for in the years since.

As if the lieutenant could read Amanda's thoughts, she added, "I wouldn't have told you if I didn't trust you. Completely."

"Good. That's good." Amanda cleared her throat, waiting to go on until she was certain her voice would remain steady. "Because I want you to keep talking to me. If it all gets to be too much or there's something else weighing on your mind, you can come to me. I'm not goin' anywhere. And I'll always be willing to listen. Got it?"

Olivia nodded, and when she met with an expectant look, she confirmed out loud, "Yes. I'll try not to bottle things up from now on, I promise." She toyed with Amanda's fingers, running her thumb back and forth across the knuckles, as she visibly struggled to find the right words to follow her vow. Eventually, she settled on: "Thank you, Amanda. For not giving up on me."

"You kidding? When have you ever given up on me? And I've actually given you good cause to, plenty of times." Amanda emphasized the last part, widening her eyes for effect. "Over and over."

Mouth quirked at one side, Olivia breathed a tired little sigh of laughter. Her gaze drifted down to their hands, curled tightly together against the blanket as if they were still clinging to each other for dear life. "It's just . . . it might be a little while before I'm ready for more than talking and—" She lifted their clasped hands slightly, then brought them to her chest, pressing them over her heart. "This. I don't want you to feel like you have to wait around on me to pull myself back together."

"Hey." Amanda shook her head and bent down to Olivia's level to get her point across, loud and clear. "There's no rush. You take as much time as you have to. I'll be here whenever you're ready. In whatever capacity you need . . . or want me to be. Friend, confidant, or anything else."

She kissed Olivia again, a gentle peck to the forehead that felt almost maternal. If chaste kisses were all they shared from that moment on, she'd learn to live with it for the lieutenant's sake. She hoped for more—she was human, after all, and did possess a healthy appreciation of sex—but she could be patient when she wanted to be. And she wanted to be with Olivia, however long it took.

When Amanda leaned back, Olivia's eyes were closed, the expression on her face peaceful, in spite of the bruises. Amanda surveyed the damage, from discolored cheek to cumbersome sling to the marks that couldn't be seen beneath the blanket, but she knew were there because her own legs were mottled in them, like the skin of a rotting piece of fruit. And then there was that silver thread of a scar along the throat—unrelated to the other injuries, but an ever-present reminder of what Amanda had very nearly lost forever.

"Thank you," she murmured when Olivia's lashes fluttered apart, brown eyes curiously seeking her out in the weighty silence. "For saving me."

 _In so many ways you don't even realize_ , she added to herself. The trials and tribulations of Amanda Jo Rollins could wait till another day.

"It was really more of a group effort," said Olivia, modest as ever. "Besides, I owed you one. Two, actually."

"Tell ya what, let's call it even."

"Done." Olivia brought Amanda's hand up and dotted a quick kiss to the back. "Now, go check on Daphne. She shouldn't wake up alone. Gigi can keep me company while you're gone."

"You sure?"

"Go, Rollins."

* * *

 

After repeated pledges of a swift return—and just as many dismissals from the lieutenant—Amanda left one hospital room, in search of another. She had barely shut the door behind her when a voice, equal parts humor and sarcasm, spoke up a few feet away, giving her a start:

"'Bout time. Didn't think you two lovebirds were ever gonna give it a rest."

"Jesus!" Amanda whirled towards the opposite corridor to see her sergeant lounging against the wall, right next to the plate glass window that overlooked Olivia's room. The very wide window that offered a generous view of the bed on the other side. Amanda's back had been turned to it the entire time she spoke to—and kissed—the lieutenant. She hadn't even thought about who might be outside, watching. "Shit. Fin, you scared the hell outta me."

_Getting caught with the boss'll do that to you, Dee Tec Tiv._

Fin's thoughts must have been on a similar wavelength, because he pushed off the wall, arms still folded inside his crisp, clean shirt, and said, "You might wanna keep your choice of fraternization buddies a little more on the DL next time, then."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Amanda mirrored his posture, arms crossed over her chest, feet planted firmly apart, and head held high. Far less effective when the skinny white girl in Christmas-colored scrubs and disposable slippers did it. But she was a firm believer in lying one's ass off until one discovered exactly how deep in it she actually was.

"Save it, Rollins. I saw you macking on Liv. Just be glad it was me out here, and not Dodds. Or Carisi."

(Pretty deep.)

And when you couldn't lie to 'em anymore, distract 'em by being a smartass:

"Macking?" she asked, and forced out a laugh that sounded more nervous than snarky. "Why don't you go back to 1995, the last time anybody used that term. Old age got you losin' your edge, or something?"

Fin rolled his eyes at the lame attempt to disparage his word choice. They both knew he could dust off any old piece of outmoded slang and make it cool again. It was all about the delivery and the confidence of the speaker, and Sergeant Tutuola had both down pat. "Relax, twitch. I ain't trying to bust your balls. I'm glad you two finally decided to go for it. The sexual tension was starting to drive  _me_  crazy."

Realizing her leg was indeed jiggling madly, as if she'd downed an entire Big Gulp from the corner 7-Eleven and it was just now kicking in, Amanda cursed the traitorous limb and let both arms fall to her sides in defeat. "Was it really that obvious?" she asked, dejected. She'd thought she was doing a decent job of keeping her feelings for Olivia under wraps, but apparently she had some more tells to rid herself of—besides the restless leg.

"To a civilian? Nah." Fin tweaked at the cuffs of his black button-down, not a trace of fur left in sight. In fact, the shirt looked freshly pressed, if Amanda wasn't mistaken. "But I've worked with you almost every single day for ten years. Twenty-plus with Liv. I know when something's up. The only people who give each other the silent treatment more than you two are married couples. Besides, y'all can't go five minutes without checking each other out."

"You're so full of shit," Amanda scoffed, but caught herself stealing a sidelong glance at Olivia through the plate glass. The lieutenant appeared to be having a serious discussion with Gigi the dog, whose attentive face was balanced in the woman's palm. It would have been a snapshot-worthy moment if Amanda had her own phone (and if sneaking a picture didn't seem like such a gross invasion of privacy, after viewing the Benson shrine erected by that creepy little shit, Calvin). She turned back to Fin, eyes narrowed skeptically, but still couldn't keep the smile out of her voice: "She really checks me out?"

"Well, she sure as hell ain't admiring your fashion sense." Fin looked Amanda up and down, smirking at her hospital chic attire. He patted his belly, indicating the wound that currently resided in her abdomen. "How's that doing?"

Always eager to show off a battle scar, Amanda hitched up her shirt as she took a step towards the sergeant. When she peeled at the corner of the bandage, he retreated several steps and waved her away. "Get out of here with that. All's I asked was how it is, not what it looks like," he said, a disgusted sneer on his face. "You nasty."

"But it's shaped like a star." Amanda inched the medical tape aside tauntingly. Even that much set her stomach aflame, skin so hot and itchy it felt as if she were lying prone on a hill of fire ants—and totally worth it, just to see Fin squirm for a little bit longer.

"I don't care if it's shaped like my dearly departed Gammie Tutuola, you keep it away from me."

"Ugh, fine." Snickering and wincing in turn, Amanda smoothed down the bandage and eased the hem of her shirt back into place. She plucked at the cheap poly blend fabric, unable to tolerate its occasional scrape against her irritated skin. Regular-fitting clothes were going to be even more fun.

"It's okay," she said, fidgeting with discomfort. From now on, she was going to heed the nurse's advice and leave the damn gauze alone. "Feels like the chestburster from  _Alien_  tried to claw out of my belly button, but I'll live. I think. Had to get a tetanus shot and they're running blood tests to make sure the cocksucker didn't give me hep C or something."

She'd intentionally omitted the last bit of information when she updated Olivia on her health status. There was no sense in worrying the lieutenant with unlikely outcomes; she needed to stay positive and focus on the probable—her own ability to make a full recovery, in body and mind. For now, Fin could be the sounding-board for Amanda's most bothersome woes. And indeed, he quickly put her at ease:

"I wouldn't stress too much. I called up Coxsackie, got them to send over the cocksucker's jacket. Didn't see anything about hep C or any other communicable diseases. Just a whole lotta hate and one ugly-ass mugshot. What the hell kinda name is Tad Orion, anyway?"

So, the cocksucker did have a first name. He didn't get to live on in infamy, the frightening huntsman whose evil deeds required only a mononym to evoke fear, like Hitler or Satan. He didn't have dominion over the night sky, nor even a small tract of forest that couldn't be located on any map. He was nothing—Tad. Taken down by a dog, a blonde, and a brown-eyed girl.

She would be sure to tell Olivia as much, if the lieutenant ever needed reminding. She wished she could reduce all of the woman's monsters to such simple terms.

"Shit name for a shit human being," Amanda muttered. She glanced back into the hospital room for a moment, then pulled Fin over to stand along the wall, rather than at the window. While she doubted Olivia's ability to read lips, nothing would surprise her when it came to her boss's aptitude. "Do me a favor and don't mention any of that stuff to Liv. Just talk up her recovery—how fast it's gonna be, how strong she is, and how we'll all pitch in. That kinda thing."

"Should I tell her she's pretty, too?"

In the half-second before she realized he was kidding, Amanda considered it. She clucked her tongue in annoyance when he flashed a knowing grin. "I'm serious, Fin. She needs encouragement right now. Be nice, or you'll have me to deal with."

The sergeant laughed, but there was no guile behind it. "All right, cool your heels there, Mac. I know how to talk to Liv. Been doing it a lot longer than you have."

"Mac?"

"Figured it was time you had a new nickname. Pretty sure I once saw an episode of  _MacGyver_  where he saved the day with a screwdriver and a bar of soap." Fin's eyes glinted merrily, and he bumped her lightly on the shoulder with his fist. It was probably the closest she would get to a hug from the sergeant, but she'd take it. "Sound familiar?"

"I had to improvise." Amanda shrugged—what're you gonna do?—and gave him a hokey wink, right out of eighties television itself. "That's how I roll."

"Uh-huh. Well, just make sure you know which way you're rollin' with the lieutenant. You're either in it for real, or you're out. No improv, no in between. She'd be putting a lot on the line for you." This time, Fin rested his hand on Amanda's shoulder and offered a small squeeze, more supportive than discouraging. "And I'm sure she'll do it without question. She'll go all in, like she always does. Don't let her regret it."

Amanda shook her head solemnly. She hadn't expected to get the protective dad speech from Fin, but she couldn't fault him for thinking she needed it. She was the one who—five seconds after a fling with a coworker—had conceived an illegitimate child (with another coworker), didn't inform the father until he caught her ready to pop, and basically told him to take a hike when he tried to get involved. Not exactly the poster child for stable relationships. The sergeant was just looking out for Olivia because he loved her—and that was something he and Amanda had in common.

"I won't," she said, with such absolute conviction it brought tears to her eyes. "I swear it. I'd never do anything to hurt her."

A gentle smile softened Fin's brusque features, giving off a hint of the dimples that were seldom very far out of reach. "Yeah, I know. And no one'll hear about any of this from me. Now, go do what you gotta do, so you can get back here and take care of your woman and your dog. 'Cause my chauffeur days are over."

Amanda couldn't help grinning as she made her way to the orthopedic wing. Her woman. She liked the sound of that.

**. . .**


	11. Ink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, folks, we have reached the penultimate chapter. It's going by way too fast, but I committed to posting today, so that's what I'm gonna do. Also? I think _this_ might actually be the longest chapter, not ch9 like I said. Oops. :D **TRIGGER WARNING!** PTSD, night terrors, references to rape. **TRIGGER WARNING!** Thank you so much for the chapter 10 reviews. Happy reading!

* * *

Like a ship blown from its mooring  
By a wind off the sea  
Like a seed dropped by a skybird  
In a distant wood  
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?  
But because I knew you  
I have been changed for good

-  _Wicked_ , "For Good"

* * *

 **CHAPTER 11:**  Ink

**. . .**

"Okay, if we're going to make this thing work, we have to lay down some ground rules," said Olivia, trying very hard to remain sober and impartial. It wasn't easy with those wide pretty eyes gazing up at her, that soft flaxen mane tumbling all around.

But she had to be strong, no matter how damn cute the dog might be. If you didn't show them who was boss from the start, eventually they would just walk all over you. Much like children and fair-haired detectives.

As if to prove her point, Gigi lifted a paw and dropped it into the palm of Olivia's hand. "No, I didn't say anything about shake," she corrected, but it came out in an animated tone—or as animated as her raw, scratchy voice could produce—and she found herself shaking the paw anyway.

Crap.

Olivia cleared her throat and put on her best interrogation face. She won staredowns with hardened criminals on a regular basis; it was almost humorous how unnerved and defensive a tattooed, three hundred pound brute of a man, neck as thick as his waistline, could become with just a calm look, especially from a woman. Especially from a woman in authority. Whether or not the trick worked on golden retrievers remained to be seen.

"Rule number one," she said, and held up her index finger, which Gigi promptly sniffed. "The first puddle or pile I step in on my nice clean floors, you're out the door. I may grant you clemency for a period of one to two weeks, since it's a new setting and moving can be stressful. But after that, you had better get your shit together. Literally."

Gigi lowered her head, gazing shyly over her snout at Olivia, as if embarrassed to be conversing about such an unladylike topic. The dog had already proven herself to be exceptionally bright and well-trained, and Olivia didn't foresee any housebreaking issues, but she still had to make her stance known. She dealt with enough bathroom mishaps from her human children (Noah might hit a mean line drive, but he couldn't hit the toilet bowl to save his life; and Matilda, free spirit that she was, preferred to go  _au naturel_  in dress and in potty location), not to mention the encounters with complete strangers who mistook the street for a public urinal—and that was just a typical morning commute in NYC. She did not need to add canine messes to her daily routine.

"Rule number two." Olivia held up a second finger, and Gigi gave a weary sigh. "You eat your own food. No begging for scraps. My son barely eats enough to sustain a hamster, as it is. And my daughter's so generous she'd probably feed you an entire box of Cheerios by hand, one at a time. But don't get any ideas. Not happening."

Honestly, she enjoyed the idea of her kids having their own furry garbage disposal to sneak veggies to under the table when she wasn't looking. It was cliché as hell, but she'd wanted the same thing as a kid—right up until the age of twelve. The year of periods, training bras, and coming home from school to find her neighbor's puppy dead on the sidewalk. It had fallen from the fire escape while her mother was dog-sitting. Serena swore it was an accident—even convinced the owner that a faulty window latch and a Jack Russell's natural curiosity were to blame—but Olivia knew all the signs by then.

By age eight, she'd already been able to identify her mother's drink of choice on any given day, based on smell alone. That time, with the dead puppy, had been a vodka disguised in water bottles kind of day. (An increasingly frequent occurrence, which seemed to coincide with Olivia's approaching womanhood. By sixteen, she was all curves and Serena was drinking her vodka straight from the bottle.) After discovering that little white and tan bundle on the sidewalk, Olivia stopped wanting a dog. Nothing she loved would be safe with her mother around . . .

Gigi's head perked up when Olivia fell silent, momentarily lost in the unpleasant memory. The dog whined and nudged at her hand, bringing her back to the present with a cold, wet nose.

"Sorry, girl. I didn't mean to zone out on you." Thoughtfully, Olivia scratched between the golden's ears. Maybe there was something to Amanda's suggestion about training a dog to wake someone having a night terror. She still found it difficult to reconcile herself to being the "someone" in that scenario, but then, she'd also had a hard time accepting that she suffered from flashbacks. Pretending the problem didn't exist just made it even worse. She couldn't continue down that path any longer—not if she wanted to stay sane for her children, herself, Amanda. And now, Gigi.

"I was going to give you a rule number three, but you're already breaking it," she said in a wry tone, cupping the dog's chin in her palm. "No sleeping in my bed. I'll let that one slide, though. I might need your help once in a while, it turns out. You seem pretty intuitive, so I'll make you a deal—as long as you wake me up before the dreams get too bad, you're welcome to share my bed. Sound fair?"

Two keen brown eyes gazed back at her, perhaps not fully comprehending the words, but definitely eager to participate in anything Olivia had in mind. If there was any doubt, the wagging tail cinched it.

"You might not be so enthusiastic once you've seen what I'm like asleep. Sometimes I snore, let's just get that out of the way right now. I think it's allergy related. And I steal the covers. And I'll probably be tossing and turning to get comfortable for a few weeks, now that I've got this thing." Olivia heaved a sigh as she glanced down at the sling and bulky pillow to which her arm was confined.

Her entire left side felt unnaturally heavy and pinched, as if it had gotten slammed in a car door that never reopened. Her hip and buttock, which actually had met with the business end of a Mercedes, were so bruised she wouldn't sit right on that side for at least a week, either. The painkillers and leftover anesthesia were doing a good job of masking the angry throbbing in her muscles and joints, but sooner or later the meds would wear off. Then it would really hurt like a bitch.

"At least I'll have something to distract me from all the junk in my head," she told Gigi, as if the dog were privy to the thoughts that had preceded the statement. Peeking sideways at the viewing window that allowed a glimpse of the hall from her room, and vice versa, Olivia caught sight of Amanda on the other side. She was aware the blonde had been watching her a second ago, but now Amanda appeared to be grossing out Fin by showing off her wound. "And then there's her."

Olivia guided the dog's face towards the window and the pretty detective.  _Her._  Just that one little word brought a smile to her lips when it applied to Amanda Rollins. A simple pronoun that encompassed all of the things Olivia had come to cherish in the past several years, without even knowing it: a lazy Georgia twang sprinkled with a dash of New York salt; a pert, blonde ponytail that rivaled any high school cheerleader's in activeness and cuteness; a pair of boots with a clipped stride that made every floor sound like an Old West saloon, and a fitted leather jacket, lest the feminine physique underneath be forgotten; and best of all, the sharp mind and fierce heart that were the driving force behind the rest.

All of the things Olivia didn't want to live another day without.

"She's . . . completely unexpected. It's funny, I never used to like surprises . . ."

Realizing her smile had crossed over from admiration to simpering like a lovesick fool, she hurriedly returned her attention to Gigi. "Could you be more obvious?" she asked, when the dog continued staring out the window, cocking her fluffy head to one side and then the other whenever the humans beyond the glass moved about. Olivia turned the golden's face back towards her. "We gotta work on your wingman skills. I'd like to play a little hard to get, you know. I can't just pounce on her. Besides, I already tried that, and it was a disaster."

The lighthearted mood, which Olivia attributed to the drugs in her system, began to wane as she replayed the previous night's events, prior to Orion's arrival, in her head. Parts of it had been wonderful: kissing Amanda, touching her, being held by her, the relief of finally letting go and telling her everything. But none of it—no matter how good it felt, how  _right_ —had magically fixed Olivia. If anything, it made her face up to how  
( _broken_ )  
traumatized she truly was. Like a recovered alcoholic who fell off the wagon after years of sobriety, she was back at day one. Although, since she had never admitted the full truth until now, could her former "recoveries" even be called such?

_Hi, my name's Olivia. I'm a multiple rape victim and it's taken me twelve years to acknowledge the fact, despite devoting my life to helping survivors of assault._

"Hi, Olivia," she muttered, and slumped against her pillow with a sigh. Spotting movement from the corner of her eye, she looked to the window in time to see Amanda glance away from it and pull Fin out of view. "And now they're talking about me. Great."

Her thoughts began to spiral as she lay there wondering what the detective and sergeant were saying about her, and she looked for anything to break through the negative pattern her brain was so eager to fall back into. The balloons were a good choice. Shiny and buoyant, they reminded her that she would soon be back home with her children. Their surprise visit had been exactly what she needed—somehow, Amanda always seemed to know what that was—the joy those sweet smiling faces brought her, the overwhelming love, was proof enough that she hadn't lost herself completely in the dark  
( _basement/bathroom/warehouse_ )  
woods. She had two very good reasons to fight that darkness with all her might.

"Make that four," she said, scratching Gigi under the chin. Amanda hadn't reappeared at the window, but Olivia decided not to overthink it. She'd meant what she said about trusting the blonde—with her secrets and her heart. Whatever the detective told Fin, it wouldn't be anything Olivia had disclosed, of that she was certain.

Her fingers brushed over the surgical gauze wrapped around Gigi's chest and shoulder in roughly the same fashion as her own sling, and she cast a sympathetic look down at the dog. "Poor old girl. Here I am, going on about my problems, and you haven't said a word about yours. How ya feeling?"

The golden retriever seemed to ponder the question for a moment, before giving a mighty yawn and flumping her head against Olivia's side. It was unbearably cute, and Olivia felt herself falling hard and fast for another pale beauty. Maybe that flirtatious comment to Amanda about preferring blondes had a bit of truth to it after all.

"Amen, sister," she said with a soft hum of laughter, confined to her throat so she didn't disturb anything from the shoulders down. Her abdomen was still touchy from wallowing around on solid rock the night before. She dreaded the food Amanda had promised to return with—and would most likely force-feed her, if she didn't keep her word about trying to eat—after visiting Daphne. Any expansion of the belly sounded like a form of torture, right up there with waterboarding and stress positions. Hopefully a pudding cup would be enough to appease Detective Rollins, the literal food police.

"Seriously, though. I'm sorry you got hurt trying to protect me." Olivia traced her finger along the shallow dip between the dog's eyes, just above the snout. The same cunning little groove that so tickled her daughter whenever she stroked it. "And I'm so sorry about your family, sweetheart. I wish I could have saved them for you."

She struggled to swallow, dry throat constricting as she murmured her apologies. She hadn't gotten emotional over a dog since the neighbor's dead puppy—hadn't allowed herself to—but Gigi was no ordinary dog, and they already shared a bond far deeper than owner and pet.

Throughout Olivia's life, she had come across certain individuals she connected with almost immediately. She didn't believe in reincarnation—parted souls meeting again in other lifetimes was a pretty idea and, like most pretty ideas, entirely implausible—but it was the closest explanation she could find for the instant spark of recognition she'd felt on those occasions. She had experienced it with Elliot Stabler (two minutes into their partnership, she spilled an entire cup of coffee on his desk and spent the rest of the week with a strip of masking tape on her locker, "Det. Juan Valdez" written across it in Elliot's bold hand), probably what had led her to the erroneous conclusion that they would somehow be together forever; she had experienced it with Rafael Barba, her true kid brother (nobody could get under her skin that fast without being a sibling of some sort, even just a spiritual one); she had experienced it with her son and daughter, both of whom she knew were hers from the first moment she held them, even if she couldn't have put it into words at the time (there was no vocabulary for such matters, only love); and God help her, she had experienced it with William Lewis, who reached right into her soul before his hands ever touched her body—reached in with those dirty, melted fingertips, and squeezed.

Now it was happening again. Except this time, the person whose destiny entwined inextricably with hers was a dog.

"I know how much you loved your mommy and daddy," she said, and let the tears fall when they came. She didn't mind if Gigi saw her crying, another anomaly that set the dog apart from the rest. "I won't try to replace them, but I will make sure you're every bit as happy and loved with me, okay? I'll never let anyone else hurt you."

Plaintive gaze fixed on Olivia's face, Gigi scooted forward and tried to lick the salty stream off one cheek. Olivia tilted her head away, and the golden retriever opted for nuzzling into her neck instead. She pressed her wet cheek into the dog's thick fur, watering it with her last few tears. "I'd call you Gaia if you didn't already have a name," she said, speaking softly near Gigi's ear. "She's the goddess who killed Orion. Or sent the scorpion to do it, at least."

One night, months after Olivia's final encounter with Calvin Arliss, when insomnia and her ceaselessly churning thoughts got to be too much, she had stayed up till four in the morning researching mythology. Specifically the Roman deity Silvanus, after whom Calvin had modeled himself. She also spent an inordinate amount of time reading up on the religious symbolism of the olive tree that night. It was a desperate attempt to make sense of what Calvin had done to her—she saw that, now—and it was ultimately in vain. All she'd come away with was further confirmation that the boy she once loved grew up to be a psychopath, and a handful of useless facts about ancient gods and goddesses, including Gaia. Mother Earth and slayer-by-proxy of Orion.

"Guess that makes me the scorpion," Olivia said thoughtfully. "If he's actually dead, that is . . ."

She eyed the television, tempted to flip it on and search for an update about the manhunt. Her finger was on the remote button when she caught a glimpse of herself in the blank flatscreen above. Mostly just a blur in a hospital gown, with a fluffy white blur beside it, but the reflection made her hesitate and then put the remote control aside. She didn't want to waste another minute of her time on that man. He was dead and she was not.

"Maybe Gaia can be your nickname." Olivia gave the dog several quick pecks on top of the head and one to the muzzle. "Just between you and me."

"Man, errbody's getting kissed on today but me."

Olivia glanced up at Fin, who stood in the doorway, a safe distance from the bed and its furriest occupant. "Everybody?" she asked, eyebrow arched in suspicion.

The sergeant sauntered a few more paces into the room, still giving Gigi a wide berth, and hitched his thumb at the plate glass window. He cocked an eyebrow right back at Olivia.

Oh, balls.

"You saw?" She gulped, already knowing the answer. Fin had seen her kissing Amanda. It wasn't as if they had been making out, but any sort of lip lock between a lieutenant and detective would be questionable behavior. She didn't much care that she'd bent the rules in front of her sergeant—she could commit cold-blooded murder, and Fin would still be the last person to rat her out to 1PP—but she felt strangely nervous about his reaction to her choice of kissing partners. And not just because it was a woman. He had a soft spot for Amanda; suddenly, Olivia understood what it must be like confronting your girlfriend's father for the first time.

"Hate to break it to you, Liv, but that ain't one-way glass." Fin gave a snort of laughter and shook his head. "Damn, you look even more freaked out than Rollins. Take it easy, I'm not here to judge or reprimand. It's about time you found someone decent. Both of you."

"Look who's talking," she said, relaxing a little. If anything, Fin looked rather pleased with the turn of events. Twenty years, and he still managed to surprise her sometimes.

"I do all right. Never would've guessed you'd end up with a girl hotter than mine, though."

Olivia folded her lips, suppressing the silly little grin that tried to peek through. No matter how far back her friendship with Fin extended, she had a reputation and a rank to uphold. Gushing over pretty girls didn't exactly foster a climate of respect. "We're not actually together. Yet. There's some things I need to work on first."

"Mm-hmm." He studied her with a curious expression, but astute as ever, asked no questions. He was her second-in-command for a damn good reason. "Well, whatever it is, I'm sure you'll get it figured out soon. You're the toughest cop I know. You'll be back at a hundred percent before long."

Eyes narrowed, she regarded him closely for several moments. "Rollins told you to say that, didn't she?"

Fin shrugged, unfazed by her sharp look and even sharper powers of perception. "I would've said it, regardless. 'Cause it's the truth. Amanda's just looking out for her boo. Can't fault her for that, can you?"

In spite of herself, Olivia smiled. There would be plenty of time to fret over standards of conduct and possible censure later. For now, she was Amanda's "boo," and that made her happier than she had felt in a very, very long time. "No, I suppose not. But don't tell her I said so. She already talked me into a dog. Her next step is to fatten me up. After that, who knows."

"You are so whipped."

Olivia lifted Gigi's face in her hand and kissed the dog square on the nose, making her sergeant shudder. "Tell me about it."

 

* * *

_February 28, 2020_

_Today was my first session with Lindstrom since Valentine's in the Catskills. Lots to talk about, needless to say. I don't think I took a breath the entire hour I was there, and I still didn't get it all out. He recommended this journal to help get my thoughts in order and keep track of anything I might have forgotten during my endless rambling._

_I told him. I told him about the rapes (hate calling them that, but he said I need to be honest with myself about what they were, otherwise I'll never get past them). I poured out every disgusting detail I could think of, every sight, sound, and smell—from the way Harris tasted like antiseptic and spoiled meat, to the way Lewis' eyes lit up whenever my body reacted to his touch, to the way the bed squeaked like a mouse while Calvin was on top of me. That last one triggered another memory. I remembered thinking of_ Stuart Little  _because Noah and I were reading it at the time. Not all that helpful or significant, perhaps, but it makes the whole thing seem more real. Like I'm not just imagining what happened. I was there and I experienced it all, whether or not my mind formed the memories. It's progress, I suppose._

_Also told L that I feel responsible for each assault. I let those bastards get the jump on me, and I can't help wondering why. Does it trace back to the single traumatic experience of a ten-year-old, or is it a cumulation of bad childhood experiences? Or does it go even deeper than that—some fundamental flaw within me, put there at conception by my rapist father and a mother who never got over being a victim? Or maybe there's absolutely no reason, and I just have really shitty luck? I'm not sure which option is the least depressing._

_Anyway, I'll probably never truly know the answer. L pointed out that none of those explanations are things within my control, so I can't be to blame. He also said that the feelings of guilt might never go away entirely, but forgiving myself is essential to recovery. I told him, easier said than done, pal. (Just not in so many words.) But I am trying. It helps to separate myself from past me and the me I am now—I can have compassion for a ten-year-old girl who wanted to protect her mother, and a forty-year-old cop whose determination got her in over her head. It's a little harder with the more recent attacks. That me should have known better. Should have fought harder._

_Obviously, I've got a long way to go. We didn't even get to Orion, at least not in-depth. I wouldn't bother talking about that asshole at all, except I don't want to let him fester up inside me like the others. I've stopped repeating their names. The hiss is still there, but quieter. Maybe one day I'll cut the head off the snake altogether._

**_. . ._ **

_March 2, 2020_

_Rough night. I had my first night terror—first I remember, that is—since the trip. L confirmed Amanda's diagnosis last week, so I guess I'm officially a sufferer of PTSD-related night terrors. He thinks I should consider benzos or an antidepressant, but I think he should go piss up a rope. I support treating mental disorders with medication . . . when it's someone else who's taking the pills._

_Am I a hypocrite? Yes. Do I care? No. I can't be the lieutenant who's popping Valium to get through the day/night. It would be the end of my career and my self-respect. I may be doing things the hard way, but so be it. I'm sure Amanda would pitch a fit if she knew, which is exactly why I haven't told her yet. The woman watches me like a hawk. Today at lunch, she didn't leave the table until I finished my salad. Now I know how Noah feels when I check his plate._

_Anyway, the dream. I mostly remember shadows chasing me through the woods. No big mystery what brought that up. Towards the end, though, I was standing at the edge of the cliff and looking for something below. (Orion?) I could see stars reflected in the water, and then they started falling from the sky. One of them stung me when it landed, and I realized it wasn't stars falling—it was scorpions. I woke up with the bedspread thrown off and my pajamas soaked in sweat. I think I scared poor Gigi half to death, but she was the one who woke me. Started barking when I thrashed around. She wouldn't go back to sleep after that, just kept trying to lick my face._

_I'm looking into getting her trained as a service dog. It's ridiculously expensive and complicated, but if it helps with the nightmares and keeps me off the benzos, it'll be worth it. Told Amanda she was right about the dog, and she spent the rest of the day strutting around like a peacock. It's a good thing she's so damn cute._

_**. . .** _

_March 5, 2020_

_They recovered Orion's body. I was honestly beginning to think he somehow survived, like a modern day Rasputin. But Amanda showed up on my doorstep this morning with the good news (and a Java Jake's cup in both hands). A couple of teenagers fishing out of season reeled him in. He was so decomposed and nibbled on by the fish, it took a few days to ID him. Which means he turned up right around the same time as my scorpion dream. Coincidence, I know, but still . . ._

_It's a huge relief. Closure. And yet, it almost feels anticlimactic. I said as much to Amanda, and she offered to let me pull her up the side of another cliff (ha!), the little smartass. She understood what I meant, though. We both built him up in our minds as some kind of horror movie villain, seemingly dead until he returned for that one final scare. And just like in the movies, "dead" is only a word—a wish—until you see a body. Lewis is dead: I know that for a fact because I watched it happen. I saw what was left of his head after he blew it apart. Calvin is dead: I_  made  _them let me view his corpse, just so I could be sure. Those three neat little bullet holes were like an ellipsis on his skin, an unfinished sentence to which I was the missing punctuation. But he's dead. Period. And I suppose Harris is dead, although I never got to see it in person. There were photos from the scene, but I could only look once. He died on a prison floor like the one he raped me on._

_Orion's autopsy is over and he's being cremated, probably as I write this. No photographic evidence, at least none that I have access to. Official cause of death: blunt force trauma to the head, sustained during a fall. It was the cliff that got him, in the end—not me or Amanda or Gigi._

_Thaddeus "Tad" Orion, spree killer. (I hate that term. It reminds me of Spree, those hard little candy things that practically shatter your teeth when you bite into them. Maybe that's how he got the chipped tooth.) His first was in Marietta, GA, in the late eighties. He did at least one per decade from then on, right up until he got busted in NY, for a 2019 spree (5 dead). We were to be his last: 3 dead, attempts made on 4 others. Meredith Ashton was his final victim, Valentine's Day, 2020. I still think of her every day._

_None of his victims showed signs of sexual assault. He got off on the kill—the more gruesome, the better. I don't think he ever intended to make good on his threats towards me. He would rather have my blood on his hands than anything else. In a weird way, it's comforting._

_Amanda's dropping hints about going out on our first date. I almost spilled coffee down the front of my blouse. Told her I'd rather be out of this damn ugly sling first. She said I'm worth the wait._

**_. . ._ **

_March 6, 2020_

_Another session with Dr. L today. I'm back on weekly appointments for the time being. We discussed Orion quite a bit—the effect his rape threats had on me (more than I expected; out of nowhere, I broke down in tears and realized how much it reminded me of Lewis' mind games), my reaction to his death, etc. I admitted that I wish it had been my bullets that killed him, and L didn't seem shocked or disapproving. He assures me all my feelings are completely normal. Sometimes I just don't know._

_We talked about my dream, too. He's still pushing the idea of medication, and I'm still refusing. I've taken precautions, of course. The magazines are in a separate strongbox, in the cupboard above the fridge, where even I can't reach them without standing on a chair. If I ever need my off-duty weapon in a pinch, basically I'm screwed. But it's the only way I can sleep at night, along with a chair wedged under my bedroom door knob. I didn't tell L that last part, but it's just a temporary fix until Gaia (AKA Gigi, AKA most glorious shedder in all the land) is fully trained, anyway._

_L thinks having G trained as a PTSD service dog is a great idea. He offered to help get her into a program run by one of his therapist friends. She starts her lessons next week. I'm already ridiculously proud of her. I've become one of those crazy dog moms I used to laugh at. Fin rolls his eyes whenever I mention her. The other day, he came into my office, handed me a lint roller, and walked away without saying a word._

_Amanda wants to have a doggy play date with G, Frannie, and Daphne's dog, Hamilton, once Daph is getting around a little better. Poor thing's got an even longer estimated healing time than I do. But she hasn't lost her sense of humor, thank God. She told Amanda that the crutches get her sympathy points with the ladies. (Actually, I think she was a little more graphic, but A toned it down for my sake.) It's mostly talk, though. Daph's not over Mere. None of us are. The memorial service was rough. M's parents were inconsolable, and I think they resented us being there. Why did we all survive, while their baby girl died so horrifically? I can't say that I blame them. We paid our respects and left quickly. They're selling the lodge and leaving the country. I hope they find peace, wherever they go._

**_. . ._ **

_March 9, 2020_

_I took the kids to church yesterday. I'm not sure what compelled me to do it—honestly, our attendance has been pretty lax since Tilly's baptism. I still want my children to have something to ground them. My mother had no use for organized religion, and while I don't necessarily disagree, it would have been nice to at least grow up with the option of faith. Noah and Matilda will have that option, even if it's something I continue to struggle with myself._

_It went well, for the most part. Everyone was friendly and glad to see us, and my bruises are gone, so the only questions were about the sling. (I lied. Kind of. Said I got the injury rock climbing. "You should really be more careful, dear," said the old lady behind me. "You're not getting any younger.") All the little girls fussed over Tilly and begged to take her to the nursery. Eventually, I gave in, but I did sneak out a few times to check on her. She was happy as a little lark, like always. My sweet girl._

_My boy was a whole different story. He got into trouble for pushing another kid during Sunday school. I didn't find out until after the sermon, and by then, we were all ready for lunch and comfy clothes and naps in front of the TV. I probably shouldn't have taken him to the diner and let him get a milkshake first, but it's our thing. He drew a family portrait and gave me a bionic arm—how could I be mad?_

_I waited till we got home and settled on the couch to bring it up. Gave him the full lecture about respecting others and not resorting to violence or hurtful words when he gets angry. He cried a little (then I cried a little), but I think it got through to him. Come to find out, the boy he pushed had told him adoptive parents don't love their kids as much as parents with "real" kids. I wanted to tell him to punch the little shit's lights out next time—but I didn't. I cuddled him close and assured him that he and his sister ARE my real kids, and I love them just as much as any biological parent would._

" _I know, Mommy. That's why God gave us to you, right?"_

_I may have gone a little overboard with the hugs and kisses (and tears) after that. Even Tilly was getting fed up with all the affection. Gigi, on the other hand . . . I think she licked a layer of skin off each of our faces. We ended up falling asleep on the couch—the four of us, piled together like . . . well, like a litter of puppies. With only the sweetest dreams._

_Maybe faith isn't so hard to come by after all._

**_. . ._ **

_March 14, 2020_

_The Sling is gone. Yes! Doc was impressed, said I'm a fast healer. Four weeks of that glorified straight jacket didn't feel fast, but I'm not going to complain. I still have to be careful. Limited range of arm movements, and no resistance whatsoever. That could last up to twelve weeks, but at this rate, the doc thinks it will be much shorter. God, I hope so. I can only handle desk duty for so long before I start getting stir-crazy. And moody. Yesterday, I snapped at Carisi for eating all the cream-filled donuts. Then I drank my weight in coffee. I'm still a little buzzed. Thinking of burning the sling later, as a symbolic gesture._

_Rafa's going to be in town on St. Patrick's Day and wants to meet for drinks. We haven't talked since Christmas, so there's a lot to catch up on. Including the fact that I no longer drink. I suppose one glass wouldn't hurt, but it's less than two weeks since the last night terror, and I don't want to push it. For now, caffeine is my strongest beverage._

_I think Amanda is jealous that she's not the first person I'm going out with, post-sling. I told her she's welcome to join us, but she said Barba's always been more my friend than hers. So I asked, why not come along as more than a friend? Her eyes were the bluest I've ever seen them, right then. Thought for sure she'd say yes. But she got close enough for me to smell her perfume, and said, "Rather have you all to myself than share you with Barba." It definitely wasn't an accident when she brushed against me on her way past. She keeps finding reasons to do that . . . and I keep letting her._

_I'm going to ask her to dinner next weekend. Just the two of us._

**_. . ._ **

_March 17, 2020_

" _I go away for a couple years and you become a teetotaling bisexual."_

_Oh, Rafa, how I've missed you. Those were his exact words to me, after I mentioned that Amanda and I are going out Saturday night. I didn't even call it a date, but apparently I was "grinning like the cat that ate the canary" (also his words) every time her name came up. Which was a lot. He was already a few drinks in, and he still put two and two together. So much for playing it cool, Lt. Benson._

_The necklace didn't help. His gift to me when Matilda's adoption was finalized—the one with the little feather and pearl._ Rise.  _I haven't taken it off since that day. Until tonight, that is. I couldn't stop fidgeting with the pendant, and the latch snapped. It survived the woods and Orion, only to be broken by my own nervous tic. Rafa thought it was hilarious. "If you didn't like it, you could've just asked for the gift receipt." I laughed at the timing, but it's a reminder that my anxiety still isn't quite under control. I'm trying to be patient with myself, and I do see improvement. I'm not as paranoid as I was just a few weeks ago . . . but my hands. Won't. Be. Still. Lindstrom says it's a good thing that I'm aware of the fidgeting, because now I can work at breaking the habit. I feel like a chainsmoker who doesn't know what to do with her hands if they're not holding a cigarette. I guess that's what I get for smoking a joint? L didn't bat an eyelash when I brought that up. In fact, he asked if I would be more comfortable with the idea of medical marijuana than antidepressants. He's more persistent than some of the drug dealers I've collared._

_I'm having the necklace fixed. For one thing, it's lovely and I already miss not having it on—but I also want to give it to Matilda when she's old enough. Amanda was playing with it the other day and commented on the irony of someone with a fear of birds wearing a feather. I told her angels have wings too._

**_. . ._ **

_March 21, 2020_

_I don't know where to begin. Tonight was dinner out with Amanda. I expected some butterflies, but my God, I was as nervous as a damn teenager going on her first date. It helped (a little) that A was, too—she laughed way too loudly at all my jokes and dropped her cell phone smack dab in the middle of her salad. It'll probably smell like ranch dressing for a good week or two. She blushed while she wiped it off. Adorable._

_Has she always been that pretty? I'm sure she has, but I couldn't take my eyes off her the whole evening. She wore a gorgeous dark red dress with bell sleeves, and a pair of peep toe heels. Her hair was up in this cute, curly side pony thing I can't even describe; I'd never seen her wear it that way before, but I highly approve. (I went with the dark blue tunic dress I've had sitting in my closet for months, with no occasion to wear. Felt a little self-conscious about the length—or lack thereof—but caught A checking out my legs more than once, so I guess it was the right call. Also liked the longer sleeves. Distracts from how weak my arm is, at the moment. Left my hair down for her. Another good call—arm may be weak, but my hair game is strong.)_

_I can't really remember what all we talked about. Everything. Nothing. We purposely avoided discussing work, so that left out a big chunk of conversation topics. But it was a good thing. Steered mostly clear of the Catskills too. Daphne did come up—she's back at work and doing as well as can be expected. Still not ready for dating, though. I was a little worried that I might not be, either, but it felt so . . . natural. And good. I mean, my mouth was going a mile a minute, I talked about my kids and dog way too much (at least I know that won't scare her off, because she did the same), and my hands were all over the place. But it's the first time in a long time that I felt like me again._

" _You look real good, Liv." That's what A said, at one point, and I know she didn't mean the dress and the hair. She'd already told me I looked beautiful when she picked me up, and there were plenty of other opportunities for a compliment that didn't take place while I had a mouth full of salmon. I think she was just happy to see me eating. She kept feeding me bites of lobster from her plate. As a matter of fact, she offers me food constantly. I already gained a pound or two since the surgery. If I don't watch it, she'll have me putting on a couple hundred more._

 _I almost invited her up. Would have, if there had been a chance for privacy. It's probably a_   _good thing there wasn't. I'm just not there yet. I want her (so goddamn much) but I need to be sure the flashbacks are under control so we don't have a repeat of Valentine's night. I won't put her through that again._

_We made out in her car, instead. It's not as wanton as it sounds. I had to be careful not to lean on my arm/shoulder, and she kept asking if I was all right, which made it a little awkward. But we found a nice fluidity before long. A very, very nice fluidity. Honestly? Best I've ever been kissed. And over far too soon. It's embarrassing how eager I am to do it again._

_She walked me to the door after. Chivalry is alive and well, and it looks damn fine in red._

**_. . ._ **

_March 22, 2020_

_Odd day. I overslept, which is unusual in itself, and ended up skipping church. The kids slept late as well—v. unusual. I was lying there in bed, planning to get up before my mind could start wandering like it normally does in the quiet, but then I started thinking about last night . . . Amanda . . ._

Kissing  _Amanda . . ._

_What can I say, I got curious. And it's been a while. An extremely long while, if we're counting the last time I had a partner. After the Mangler—scratch that, I'm supposed to call him Calvin. After Calvin, I kind of lost the desire. His hands were the only ones I could imagine on me. But this time I imagined her hands. Her mouth. Her._

_It worked really well. I'm not saying it was earth-shattering (half asleep + one ear listening for the kids to stir + the dog waiting to go out = decidedly unsexy), but it was something. It felt good and safe. She always makes me feel safe._

_Work should be interesting tomorrow. I've never let an attraction interfere with my ability to do my job, and I'm not going to start now, but I can't make any promises that I won't be thinking about that red dress, no matter what else she's wearing._

_More oddness this afternoon: Dodds called to say he's recommending me for captain. Still can't wrap my head around it. I almost expected him to chew me out for dating a fellow officer, but it never came up. At least I know my office and A's car aren't bugged. (Kidding. Sort of.) The exam isn't for a few more months, so I've got plenty of time to decline—or accept. It's more responsibility and a lot more scrutiny. CompStat meetings and bureaucratic bullshit. But the pay hike would be nice. My shoulder should be back up to snuff by then. It would give me some time to see where things are going with A, before I decide whether or not to tell the chief, too. Lots of decisions. I think I'll go eat ice cream and watch cartoons with the kids, instead._

**_. . ._ **

_March 25, 2020_

_Six day's into spring and guess whose got the flu? My entired household. I think Noah was patient zero. He had sniffles on Sunday night. By monday morning, he and Tilly were running a fever and crying b/c there throats were so sore. Hated leaving for work. Lucy was a trouper—braved my disease-infested apartment and children for 2 days straight, and she's healthy as ever. (Sometime's I hate her.) I, on the other hand, look like death warmed over. Hit me last night. Hard. I already took some time of after V-day otherwise would've called in sick this morn_

_March 26, 2020_

_Literally fell asleep writing last night's entry. (Oh my God, the grammar. My mother would be appalled.) Didn't feel any better today, except Amanda kept touching my forehead and bringing me tea. I had to pee every fifteen minutes, but she was being so sweet, I couldn't turn it down. Then she insisted on stopping by after work to check on me. I tried telling her to stay away so she didn't catch my plague and take it home to Jesse, but she swore up and down she never gets sick. Showed up at my door with a box of Kleenex, a bag of Halls—even got the berry-flavored Breezer ones I like—and enough chicken soup to feed an army of flu-ridden soldiers._

_The kids were ecstatic to see their "Annamandy." Other than some congestion, they're both fine and dandy. I'm a zombie. But A made me some more tea, brought me a ginormous bowl of soup and saltines, and mummified me in about ten blankets. She took Gigi out for me and played with the kids to wear them out so they'll sleep better tonight (supposedly). I was pretty much zonked on NyQuil by the time she left, but I think she kissed me on the forehead._

_That one's a keeper._

**_. . ._ **

_March 27, 2020_

_The good news is, I'm on the mend from the flu. Bad news is, I had another night terror last night. A big one. I have no idea what it was about, but I woke up crying on the floor, with Gigi whining and licking my face. She's still got a few weeks of training and didn't quite know what to do for me yet, my poor little Gaia girl. I think it was a combination of being sick, overtired, and stoned on NyQuil that brought it on. Thankfully, my shoulder seems okay, but the migraines_   _flared_   _up with a vengeance. Work was a bitch. Couldn't even enjoy seeing A because my head was pounding._

_Almost cancelled with Lindstrom, but I really wanted to discuss some things that have happened since last time. Namely A and the continuing nightmares/migraines. My head felt a little better after work, so I went. L probably wishes I had stayed away. Had a coughing fit from all the talking, and spent the rest of the session blowing my nose. Sorry, Doc._

_He's still v. supportive about Amanda, but wants me to be careful not to hinge my recovery on her. He advised taking it slow—in all aspects of the relationship. Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but I know he's right. Thinks the dream/headache could've been caused by stress from so many recent changes: new relationship, possible new job, etc. Plus, the plague. Whatever it was, the chair is back under the doorknob, at least for tonight._

**_. . ._ **

_April 1, 2020_

_I managed to get through half the day without hearing a single "April Fools!"—at least none that were directed at me. (Carisi rubbed a jelly donut on his face and hid the rest from Fin; for a minute, I really thought there might be a brawl in the middle of my squad room. Amanda paid Carisi back by loosening all the screws in his desk chair. She posted a video of the results on YouTube. I've watched it about 50 times, and it still makes me laugh. Our Sonny might just go viral.)_

_But then I got home and "April Fools!" was all I heard for the rest of the evening. Luckily, the pranks of a second grader are relatively mild. The worst I got was a Whoopee cushion under my seat. Every. Single. Time. I just saw him sneak it under my pillow before bed, the little scamp._

_Met with my physical therapist after work, and he asked if I was playing a prank on him with how well my shoulder is coming along. I guess all that time at the gym—before the surgery—paid off in more ways than one. He gave me some new exercises to try and told me to keep up the good work. I see him again in a couple more weeks, and if all goes well, I can start the final round of PT. Hallelujah._

**_. . ._ **

_April 4, 2020_

_Went out with Amanda again tonight. I can finally drive, so I picked her up this time. First time I've ever done that with a date, actually. I liked it. Especially the part where she opened the door. Did I mention she's pretty?_

_Jesse was a little put out that I didn't stay to play dress up with her millions of dolls (poor Amanda), but she told me I looked like a Wonder Woman princess lady. I think it's the hair, but hey, I'll take it. J got an extra big hug from me before we left, and when I opened the car door for Amanda, she said, "Wonder Woman's got nothin' on you, city girl." That nickname still makes me grin, and she damn well knows it._

_Me, trying to maintain some decorum: "Except a golden lasso."_

_Her, flirting shamelessly: "Well, you already roped me in._

_And that sums up every bit of conversation we had the entire night—flirtatious banter and thinly disguised innuendos that made it impossible to focus on the food. Although, that was delicious, too. Italian. Amanda ate more of my lasagna than I did, because I was too full from her baked ziti. She insisted on splitting a slice of tiramisu, but I only managed a couple bites, and surrendered. A finished it. I don't know where she puts it. My appetite has improved considerably—no more subsisting on coffee and the occasional morsel—but I'll never be able to keep up with that little blonde eating-machine._

_She wore purple, and it turned her eyes violet. Honest-to-goodness Liz Taylor violet. I couldn't get Elton John out of my head for the rest of the night: "Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen . . ."_

_How did I become such a starry-eyed sap, I wonder? Oh, right. Her._

_Another make out session in the car. Two, if we're being technical. Once outside the restaurant (initiated by A; she tasted like coffee and mascarpone) and once outside her building (initiated by me; I trembled when she touched—and touched and touched—me . . . Not one thought of Calvin, or any of them). And a third, much hastier one when I walked her upstairs. It's getting harder to wait. I had to take a breather against the wall after she went inside. She was watching out the window when I left._

" _How wonderful life is while you're in the world."_

**_. . ._ **

_April 9, 2020_

_Well, they say when it rains, it pours. And this week's been a deluge. It started on Sunday when Noah accidentally rode his bike into a crosswalk and almost got hit by a car. Thank God the driver had quick reflexes and stopped in time. My anxiety levels have been through the roof since then. Jumping at the slightest noise, not sleeping, and the godawful migraines. I'm half-tempted to let Dr. L prescribe me something tomorrow, just to get some relief. We'll see._

_Monday was even worse. Jesse got stung by a bee at recess and went into anaphylaxis. The school called right as we were sitting down to lunch, and Amanda had to rush off to the hospital. She didn't even know Jesse had a bee allergy, up until that moment. I went to the hospital as soon as I could—baby girl was stable by then, but mama was a wreck. Doing a good job of hiding it, but a wreck all the same. I made her sit down and eat something (how the tables have turned), then held her hand while Jess got a whole battery of injections and cried her little heart out. That part was brutal. I stepped out afterward, when J was asleep, and went to get us some coffee._

_On my way back to the room, they were bringing in a little girl the same age as Jesse. Critical condition, after being raped and strangled by a male family member. It was Ariel Jackson, the little girl whose uncle walked for her rape back in February. The bastard did it again, and this time he tried to shut her up before she could tell anyone. She's on life support now, not expected to recover. The grandmother looked at me like she wanted me to drop dead as they walked by. I got such an instant, splitting headache, I thought she might get her wish. I stayed with Amanda and Jesse for a while longer, but I don't know if I was much comfort after that. Hospital didn't release Jess until late, so I told A to take the next day off and be with her girl. She has to carry an EpiPen around now. I missed her on Tuesday._

_Spent that day doing everything in my power to get Ariel's scumbag uncle put away for life. He's not walking away from this one. Tues. night: bad dream. I was Ariel Jackson, and William Lewis was my uncle. He did horrible things while my mother watched. When he finished, she said it was my fault. I woke up panting—and shivering. Gigi caught this one before it escalated, and pulled the covers off. I left them off, and fell back asleep holding her for warmth._

_The only bright spot on Wednesday was Amanda returning to work. (Jesse's "fit as a fiddle" and back at school, with strict instructions on handling her newfound allergy and newfound terror of bees.) It literally poured all day, and everyone had a case of the blues. So, let's plan something fun for the kids, we thought. And if the mommies get some time together in the process, even better._

_Thursday (today) came around, sunny and gorgeous. New York springtime at its finest. So we took the kids to the park after work/school. Everything was fine, until Amanda put her arm around me on the bench. I'm not supposed to move my arm that way yet, otherwise I would've beaten her to it. I reached for her hand instead, and one of the other moms gave us a dirty look. I thought I was imagining it at first, but then Mom #1 leaned over and whispered to her friend, who also turned to look. And then Mom #2 shook her head at us. "Dykes," she mouthed back to Mom #1._

_Honestly, I was too surprised to be mad. At first, anyway. We're in New York City, for Christ's sake, not Podunk, Mississippi. I turned to Amanda, with my mouth hanging open, but she was already on her feet. "Hold this," she said, and handed me her cappuccino. I tried to stop her, but she marched right over to them. I've never seen two women snatch their babies up so quickly—you'd think Amanda was a dingo on the prowl for succulent infant flesh, the way they acted. I still have no idea what she said to them, although I'm guessing by their shocked, red faces, it was something explicit. I actually laughed a little bit . . . until I heard Matilda screaming. She'd made it up the slide with Noah's help, but at the bottom, she fell forward and busted her lip open. My heart stopped when I saw the blood. You don't know true fear until you've seen your precious baby girl's face pouring blood. It turned out not to be as bad as it looked, but I'm still shaking. I don't know what happened to the homophobic moms, nor do I care. We made our second trip to the ER this week, with Tilly bleeding and crying on my lap in the backseat. By the time she got stitched up (two tiny sutures just above her upper lip), she was fine. Her normal happy self. I couldn't watch. Noah held my hand, and Amanda gave me the play-by-play—all ten seconds of it—but once the needle got near Tilly's face, I started feeling faint. I managed not to pass out, though, and when it was over, Tilly just smiled at me with her puffy little lip as if nothing bad had happened at all._

_I love that kid._

_If anything good came of the whole crappy experience, it's that I didn't freeze up. I kept it together for my daughter when she needed me. I can keep it together for her. And I will. Always._

_Now, she's fast asleep, head in my lap as I play with her curls, and her big brother—protector and best friend—snuggled in beside her._

_We're going to be okay, we three._

**_. . ._ **

_April 12, 2020_

_Amanda slept over last night. It's not like it sounds—although it could have been, if we'd given into temptation. After the week we both had, we decided to stay in with the kids (and dogs, my poor apartment), for a popcorn and movie night._  Mary Poppins Returns  _for the 40 millionth time. Thank goodness Emily Blunt is such a doll, otherwise I would be all Poppins'd out. Halfway through, Amanda was snoring like a foghorn, much to the kids' and my amusement. We took turns seeing who could land a piece of popcorn in her wide open mouth. I'm not proud. (But I totally won.) She woke up grouchy and threw what was left of her popcorn at us. Gigi and Frannie were in Heaven._

_When we got the kids settled down enough to tuck them in—then spent another half hour answering their requests for drinks of water, trips to the potty, and more hugs—we finally had some alone time. It started out awkward, with neither of us quite sure what to do first. Until Frannie upchucked about a gallon of popcorn, and all thoughts of romance went right out the window. When you've cleaned up dog vomit together, you kind of just roll with the punches from then on._

_The punches included: Netflix (I let her choose, and we ended up fully immersed in some British bake-off show, bickering over who should win), cuddling—or should I say, snogging—on the couch (my shoulder was a little touchy, so I took the front and she took the back . . . I've never been more relaxed being held by someone; half the time I couldn't tell whose arms and legs belonged to whom), and talking until 1AM (serious topics this time; she thinks I should take the captain's exam, I think she should invite her mom for Jesse's birthday). That's when she leaned down and kissed me unexpectedly while I was tilting my head back to look up at her. Then she called us Spider-Man and Mary Jane, and I looked at her like she was nuts (still have no clue what the hell it means, but I guess it's a good thing)._

" _Well, c'mon, Spidey," I said. "Let's go to bed." I didn't even stop to think how it sounded. We had a good laugh over that one, and she started getting ready to bed down on the couch. I took her hand, pulled her up, and told her she was sleeping with me. I suppose it was a little forward, but I actually meant sleeping . . . for the most part. No laugh this time. She asked if I was sure. I was. We spent the night in each other's arms—I in hers, at least—and it was the best sleep I've had in months._

_I learned two new things about my detective this morning. 1) She's cute as heck when she's just waking up, hair all rumpled and one of my t-shirts askew on her small, pale shoulders. 2) She's even friskier in the AM than the PM._

_We were good. The kids were right next door. But the kisses are getting more heated, the touches more intimate. . . I'm not sure how much longer either of us can wait. God, I hope I'm ready._

_The kids thought nothing of it when Amanda and I came out of the bedroom together. Noah did ask what took us so long, but only because he wanted breakfast. I fixed everyone chocolate chip pancakes (plain for Tilly, who won't eat chocolate), and while we were devouring them like none of us had ever seen food before, Jesse asked, "Can we do this every weekend, Mama?"_

_Noah, to me: "Yeah, can we?"_

_Tilly,_  mon petit bébé français _: "We?"_

_Amanda and I pled the Fifth, but I knew the answer as soon as I looked over at her, cheeks crammed full of pancakes and those willful blonde bangs in her eyes:_

Oui.

**_. . ._ **

_April 17, 2020_

_Busy week. But good busy. Ariel Jackson's uncle was arrested for her murder (she died last Tuesday), and it's a slam dunk case. That prick is finished. I only wish we could have gotten him sooner, for Ariel's sake. RIP, sweet one. I'm so very sorry._

_Dr. L says my outlook has improved vastly, especially in the past couple of weeks. He thinks it's because I caved last week and let him write me a scrip for Zoloft. Something had to give, and I didn't want it to be my sanity. He keeps telling me it's a good thing. That I'm a much higher risk to myself and others by not treating the PTSD symptoms than I ever would be on meds. He gave me the statistics on cops and depression/anxiety, most of which I already knew, but I didn't realize how prevalent the use of antidepressants was among law enforcement. Turns out there aren't many cops who aren't on meds of some kind. It still makes me wary, so L is writing a letter to vouch for my psychological fitness on the job. I hate that it's come to that—and the recommendation for captain will probably be off the table, once I hit Dodds with the double whammy of SSRIs and departmental romance—but I can't sacrifice my mental health for my work anymore. Not while I've got two babies at home who need their mama. Three, counting Gigi._

_The shoulder is coming along. Still a bit twingy from time to time, but it's getting there. A couple more weeks, and I should be able to add some more challenging resistance exercises. I'll just be glad when I can pick up my daughter with both arms again._

_I just realized I went almost a full week without thinking about Calvin, Amelia, or Harris. Lewis, though . . . in one way or another, Lewis is always with me._

**_. . ._ **

_April 21, 2020_

_Amanda's birthday today. I took her out after work and told her to order whatever she wanted. So, naturally, she got a grilled cheese and French fries and doused both in ketchup. Welcome to 40, I guess? Can't fault her, though. I had a couple bites—delicious. We split a slice of cake so big there were leftovers for Noah and Jesse. (Matilda would refuse such an offering. I can only assume it's because she's sweet enough already.)_

_She got a kick out of the homemade cards from my kids, especially Noah's—he drew her arresting a perp, in full police blues, with Frannie as backup. The inscription read: "Happy 14 BDAY, Ant Amanada!" Apparently he misheard my response when he asked about her age._

" _Hey, I'll take it," A said._

_She's been a bit sulky about turning "middle aged," as she puts it. I told her, join the club, I've been a member for 12 years. But I get it. I thought about taking her roller skating or to a paintball arena—something youthful and completely frivolous—but I don't think my shoulder's ready for either of those just yet. So I'm surprising her with a trip to Coney Island this weekend, instead. I haven't been since I was a teenager (as a civilian, at least), and she's never been at all. Already made arrangements for Lucy to stay overnight with my kids and Jesse . . . I think this might be the weekend. I'm nervous. How ridiculous is that?_

_Nervous, but not anxious. My hands weren't fidgeting much at all during dinner. Steady as a rock when I gave her the necklace. I hesitated at gifting jewelry (too soon? Does she even like to wear it?), but when I saw it in the shop window, I knew it was perfect. A silver lighthouse charm with a pendant of blue sea glass the same shade as her eyes, and a tiny pearl like the one on my necklace. A bit of ocean for the woman who reminds me so much of it—constant, soothing, and untamed._

" _Oh, Liv, it's beautiful. I love it. What made you choose a lighthouse?"_

" _I was unmoored. Drifting out there with nothing to hold onto. You're the light that showed me the way back home."_

_I think she teared up when I put the necklace on her. But then, so did I. My safety, my harbor, my beautiful lighthouse in the storm._

**_. . ._ **

_April 26, 2020_

_Coney Island was a success. Almost too much, I'm afraid. We both gorged on so much junk food yesterday, I may never eat again. (Amanda was eating leftover cotton candy for breakfast when I woke up this morning. Not that I minded. Extra sweet kisses.) And so much walking, dear God. I've been behind a desk far too long. Even A complained that her feet hurt, though, so I guess I'm not that bad off. It's still a bit early in the season, which cut back on the crowds a little, and made navigating easier. Chilly day, too. Again, didn't mind—it gave us an excuse to keep each other warm. Lots of stolen kisses on the Wonder Wheel, lots of flirting and hand-holding (and no innocent bystanders turned to stone—imagine that, judgmental park moms!)._

_I stuck to the tamer rides: the Wheel, carousel, Spook-a-Rama. Almost skipped that last one, because of the jump scares, then went for it anyway. The only one that got me was the first air cannon. Amanda said she's never heard such filth come out of my mouth before. Oops. She went on a couple of the coasters, but I sat those out. Damn shoulder. I promised her we'd come back someday, and I'd show her what a real roller coaster aficionado looks like._

_After the arcade, the aquarium, and every shooting game we passed by (I told her they were rigged, so she won me a giant pink teddy bear, the show-off), we were done for. It was still early in the evening, but I figured the drive home would put the final nail in the coffin. Hard to be in the mood when you're too tired to brush the coney sauce off your teeth. Amanda must've known what I was thinking, because she suggested a hotel room. I used every excuse I could think of not to—cost, a perfectly good empty apartment back in Manhattan, Frannie expecting her mama to come home, etc.—every one except the real reason: I was afraid it would remind her of him. Of Patton. And she read it all over my face, like she always does._

" _It's okay, darlin'." She took my face in her hands and kissed me. Salt water taffy and blue raspberry sno-cone. Her lips were still cold and tinted blue. "You're nothing like that. You never could be. Let's go make some new memories."_

_New memories . . . her mouth on me, as eagerly as she tastes any of her beloved sweets . . . her hands at my breasts, gentle until I put my hands over them, and squeeze . . . her soft, pale hair spilling across my belly on her way down, tangled around my fingers while she makes me forget every touch but hers . . . her warm, greedy little tongue and the slight rumble at the back of her throat that I swear I can feel in every inch of my body . . . her eyes locked on mine . . ._

_She held me for a long time after, playing with my hair, my skin, my fingers. When she pressed her palm to the cigarette burn, I didn't even flinch. "Don't shoot me for askin', but are you okay?" She burred it in my ear, and that did make me shiver. In all the best ways. I answered her with a kiss, then showed her just how "okay" I really was._

_Rollins Fact #147: she's not only loud when she's pissed._

_There were a few things I wasn't ready for, but judging by her enthusiastic response to what I did do, I don't think she minded. I'll say this for sex with a woman—the communication is first-rate. Along with everything else. Or maybe it's just her? I don't know. Whatever it is, I want more._

_Her scar healed into a perfectly shaped star that puckers at all that smooth, firm skin surrounding it (how she managed to keep the abs and avoid the stretch marks after giving birth, I'll never know). I was tracing my finger around each little point when she gave me one of her drowsy smiles, and asked, "Whatcha thinkin', city girl?"_

_I was thinking how much I love her, how lucky I am she happened to drop out of nowhere and into my life almost ten years ago, like a bright, shooting star._

" _Good things," I said. "Only good."_

_We didn't leave the hotel until check out time this afternoon. Did I mention she's even friskier in the morning? I'm still sticky from the cotton candy. It's getting harder to say goodbye each time. How does that Fleetwood Mac song go?_

" _Oh, I . . . I want to be with you everywhere."_

**_. . ._ **

_April 30, 2020_

_Amanda and I met up with Daphne at the dog park today. It was good to see her again. She's in a walking boot, and she might need a cane after that, but the doctor thinks it will be temporary. According to Daph, a "pimped out" cane would make her even more irresistible to the ladies, so she's not too worried. She's still not seeing anyone. I think she's a little jealous of A and me, although she does a good job of hiding it with humor. "My best friend went to the Catskills and got a girlfriend, and all I got was this lousy permanent limp." She said she's going to have a t-shirt made._

_Gigi is madly in love with Daph's goldendoodle, Hammie. Perfect name. He's big and rambunctious and absolutely adorable. Thank God they're both fixed, otherwise I'd probably have a litter of puppies running around my apartment in a few months._

_We told Daphne about the "dyke" incident with the park moms. She said it's not usually a problem in the city, but we'll run across the occasional asshole who feels the need to make his (or her) disapproval known, some with more hostility than others. They don't know what they're getting themselves into with Amanda Jo Rollins at my side (just found out that's her middle name, and I'm still not over it). Apparently she scared those moms off with something along the lines of: "Unless you wanna get arrested by a dyke cop for indecent exposure, I suggest you take those walking phalluses you call children, and go. You really bring those things out in public?"_

_Daphne laughed so hard she almost fell over. Somehow I kept a straight face and scolded, "Amanda Jo! You didn't."_

_A, groaning: "Stop with the middle name."_

_Daph, gasping for air and hanging onto the fence for support: "Amanda Jo? You never told me that, Mandy Lou. Or should I say Mandy Jo?"_

_A, glaring at me: "Now look what you started."_

_I whispered in her ear that I'd make it up to her later, and she forgave me pretty quickly—or right quick, as she would put it. I like making her giggle with my bastardized Southern vocabulary and horrible accent._

" _Ugh, you guys are so cute it's disgusting," Daphne informed us._

_Yeah, we kind of are._

**_. . ._ **

_May 4, 2020_

_First fight with Amanda yesterday. Not really a fight—more of a disagreement. We've certainly had worse in the past. I suppose "lovers' quarrel" would be the most accurate term. Anyway. I asked if she was planning to call her mom for Mother's Day, and she got defensive. I probably should have stayed out of it, but I can't help wishing she'd forgive Beth Anne. For her own peace of mind, if nothing else. It's a hard, destructive thing to carry with you, all that anger towards the woman who gave you life. I told her as much, and she said that maybe I could forgive my mom for the awful things she'd done, but "I'm not as good as you, Liv."_

_So, then I got defensive. I said there was a big difference between being raised by an alcoholic and having a mother whose only crime was being abused herself. Amanda asked how it was different—they were both victims who refused to get help, not just for their own sake, but for their children, as well. I have to admit, she had me there. She went on to tell me about Beth Anne's instability as a parent, and odd behavior in general. I still think she's being a bit harsh, but who am I to say? I was barely on speaking terms with my mother when she died, and despite what Amanda thinks, all is definitely not forgiven. Even these many years later. Even though I understand my mother now, more than ever. Some scars are just too deep._

_But then, I suppose that's exactly why Amanda can't put aside her anger towards Beth Anne. I apologized for bringing it up, and she apologized for using Serena against me. We hugged it out for a while. She said she might call her mom, after all. I'm going to take some flowers by the cemetery that day._

_Strange, how you can resent someone so much and miss them at the same time._

**_. . ._ **

_May 10, 2020_

_Mother's Day. Migraine. I put a bouquet of purple hydrangeas on my mom's grave. I've heard they symbolize the desire to understand someone. Burst into tears unexpectedly while I was kneeling there in front of the headstone. I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe reading the dates of birth and death triggered me? I know I'm not my mother—never will be—but at least some part of who I am comes from her. What that means, I just don't know. I didn't stay with her long; I felt myself getting angrier the more times I reread her epitaph._

_She should still be here, celebrating the day with her daughter and grandchildren. Instead, she's in the ground because she was too blind drunk to walk down a fucking flight of stairs. Ah well, she never saw much to celebrate in being my mother, anyway._

_When I got home, Amanda was waiting in the hall outside my apartment, with Jesse, Frannie, and a bouquet of ten red roses—the symbol of love and romance. (Later, she told me ten of them means "you're perfect.") She could tell I'd been crying quite a bit, but she didn't say anything in front of the babies. After she sent them off to play, dismissed Lucy, and put the roses in some water, she sat me down on the couch and held me for a long time, without needing to ask what was wrong. We ended up falling asleep like that, and when we woke up, it was to five sets of eyes (the kids + the dogs) staring at us._

_Right away, Jesse wanted to know if we could order a pizza ("Peesa," Tilly agreed). But Noah was more suspicious. He asked why we were napping by ourselves on the couch—a Sunday routine usually reserved for me, him, Matilda, and Gigi. I hadn't planned on telling the kids about A and me until much later on down the road, but I also hate lying to my son. I was trying to think of the best way to respond when Amanda stepped in: "We got plumb tuckered out waiting on you slowpokes to join us. Fell right to sleep."_

_Noah narrowed his eyes for a minute (if I didn't know better, I'd say he's been watching me in the interrogation room), then finally said, "Auntie Amanda, you talk funny."_

_Amanda: "That's what they tell me, li'l slugger."_

_Bullet dodged. For now. But it was a nice little reminder that I've still got to have a serious conversation with Dodds about some things. It'll only get harder the longer I wait. I learned that from my son, too. Telling him about his adoption just became that much more stressful every time I put it off. If I'd continued to talk with him about it like I did in the beginning—and like I'm doing with Tilly—it would've saved me a lot of sleepless nights. Live and learn, I guess._

_The kids crawled up on the couch with us, after we submitted to their demands for "peesa," and Noah made sure to wedge himself in between Amanda and me. She took it in stride, but I'm a bit concerned. We're in a good place right now, and I don't want him to start acting out again._

_But that's the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it? I fucked things up with A again. Felt sick from the migraine and didn't want any pizza or anything resembling food. She was on instant high alert, I could tell. When the kids were set up in front of the TV (with their other nanny, Mary Poppins), A cornered me in the bedroom and started in with the questions: Are you all right? Why didn't you eat? Do you need to talk? Are you still taking your medication?_

_(That last one got to me.)_

_I love her for looking out for me, I truly do. But sometimes I can't breathe, and I need a minute. I told her I just didn't feel well and wasn't hungry. She asked if I was sure, and I said yes, then I made a comment that "at least we know I'm not pregnant." It came out wrong—too snippy, too many connotations—and I could see it bothered her. So, like a complete ass, I said we should get back to the living room before the kids wondered what we were up to, and I walked out._

_I think she might have been planning to stay the night, but after sighing through half the movie, she gathered up Jesse and Frannie, kissed me on the cheek at the door, and left. It's probably better that way. I'm not fit to be around right now._

**_. . ._ **

_May 11, 2020_

_Another night terror. No big surprise there, after that shitfest of a Mother's Day. Woke up around 3AM when Gigi started nudging me, and didn't get anymore sleep after that. I think I was drowning in the ocean in my dream. I woke up gasping for air and thrashing at the blankets. Immediately started crying because I wanted Amanda there to hold me and make it okay. I would have called her if it hadn't been so late/early._

_No, I wouldn't have. I can't be that desperate and needy. But God, I wanted to._

_Instead, I lay awake, thinking about what I'd said and how it must have sounded to her. First, I diminished our time together at the hotel with a bad joke, then I hurried out like I was ashamed of our kids knowing about us (after I'd already blanked when Noah put me on the spot about it earlier). I couldn't stand the thought of her wondering if I was like the other women who were too scared to admit their feelings for her._

_I had a gorgeous arrangement of different colored lilies delivered to her at work today, with a note attached: "Yellow is thankfulness—I'm thankful for you. Pink is prosperity—my life is richer with you in it. Red is passion—you're mine. Orange is pride—I'm proud to be yours. - All my love, O"_

_A little ostentatious and probably a whole lot unprofessional, but she deserved it. She downplayed it for the guys (and hid the note from Carisi), but when they went to lunch, she came into my office, shut the door, and closed the blinds. We hugged for about ten minutes straight. I apologized._   _Profusely. Then I told her that, first thing tomorrow morning, I'm going to Dodds and disclosing our relationship. She tried to talk me out of it, so I asked if there's a reason I shouldn't. She played with her necklace for a minute, then said, "You know, Lieutenant, I can't think of a single one."_

_Minx._

_We wrote up a private memo for ourselves, detailing what would happen in the event of an inimical breakup. An agreement on who would step down or transfer to another department. It's just to cover our asses, but it wasn't fun to discuss. And I don't plan on ever using it, which is why I filed it away in the deepest, darkest reaches of my desk._

_I'm scared shitless about tomorrow. What if I'm wrong? What if it's too soon? What if I'm putting my career (or worse, Amanda's) at risk for my own irrational need to be so damn honest? But, as I write this, she's asleep in bed beside me, with her arm draped around my waist and her hair fanned out on the pillow—and somehow, none of the what if's seem to matter._

**_. . ._ **

_May 12, 2020_

_Well. Now Dodds knows. I can't say he was particularly thrilled by the news, but he seemed more surprised to find out I'm dating a woman than upset she's my subordinate. I think he fancied me a little sweet on him, to be honest. He rushed me through my speech on why the relationship will have no effect on my or Amanda's ability to do our jobs—his only comment was, "Good, see that it doesn't"—and he stopped me altogether when I said I understood if this put a nix on the captain's exam._

" _Benson, you're one of my best officers. The force would be lucky to have a captain as exemplary as you've proven yourself to be, time and again. Now quit trying to get out of it, and go study." It was such a departure from what I was expecting to hear, I mostly just stared at him the whole time. At least I remembered to shake his hand and say thank you, sir._

_I didn't tell him about the antidepressants yet. Those, I'm not so proud of, even if they are helping. I'll get around to mentioning them later, when he's had time to process this information._

_Amanda's staying over again tonight. She said she's in the mood to celebrate. I think she's just in the mood, period. She was eyeing me in the break room like I was one of the vending machine snacks. I told her to go splash some cold water on her face before she got us both fired. When she came back to the squad room, her bangs were wet._

_May 13, 2020_

_Wet. That sums up last night perfectly._

**_. . ._ **

_May 15, 2020_

_Long talk with Dr. L about Mother's Day, disclosing to Dodds, conflict (and accord) with Amanda, and Noah's jealousy (he's starting to cling when A's around, and keeps asking her, "Why are you here?"). Despite a few glitches here and there, he thinks my stress management is showing marked improvement. Wants to delve a little deeper into my feelings about Serena, next time. I'm not looking forward to that._

_He did make me feel a little better about bickering with A, though—reminded me we're not exactly a "new" couple, even if the relationship has changed. We've got ten years of history together, and there's bound to be some (unpleasant) friction once in a while, especially since we've had our share of disagreements in the past._

_As for my little guy, L assures me some jealousy is normal, now that so much of my attention is focused on Amanda. Suggests she and Noah spend some quality time together. I'm checking on season tickets to Yankee Stadium. It'll probably cost a small fortune, but I know two sports junkies who will salivate. They can go have their fun, and I'll take the girls for mani-pedis or something. Matilda is already showing signs of being a full-blown girly girl, so she'll love it; and as long as Jesse gets to be the star of the show, she's happy anywhere. I told A she's got herself a little actress in the making, and her response was, "Oh, Lord." Never fails to make me smile._

_Still have to talk with Noah, and let him know he and Tilly come first, no matter what. But I think it will all work out. Lately, things seem to have a way of doing that._

 

* * *

_June 27, 2020_

_My baby girl turned two years old today. I don't know where the time has gone. She's growing up way too fast, especially since we started spending so much time with Amanda and Jesse. Now she wants to be a big girl, like her "sissy" (Amanda and I still don't know where she picked that up, although we suspect a certain towheaded cutie), instead of letting me and Noah baby her. Mostly. She still loves her cuddles._

_We had her party at the park. Not enough space in my or A's apartments for that many people. And dogs. My squad was there, of course; Fin brought Jaden, and Sonny brought his nephew, Nicholas. Noah was thrilled to finally have some boys to play with. The other day he found one of Jesse's dolls in his toy box, marched it out to her in the living room, and announced, "I've got girls coming out of my ears around here!" It's true. Even the dogs are female._

_I also invited Daphne and her new girlfriend Hazel, who has a three-year-old daughter herself. Little cutie named Willa. She fit right in with Tilly and Jess, and naturally,_  everyone  _loved Hamilton._

_As far as birthday parties for toddlers go, it was a lot of fun. Crazy at times (Hammie helped himself to a corner of the cake before Daph could shoo him away with her cane; and the girls, led by Jesse, were in constant competition with the boys, led by Noah), but fun. Daphne was in rare form, keeping the adults entertained with her racy sense of humor whenever the kids weren't around. I don't think the men knew quite what to make of her, but she had me and the other ladies in stitches. At one point, I caught Amanda grinning at me. When I asked her what—something on my face?—she just shrugged: "Nothin'. You're giggling. I missed that sound."_

_Daph aww'd at us and proceeded to tell Hazel she was our matchmaker—the "Yente of the lesbian kingdom," I believe were her exact words. (By then, Fin was dozing on a bench, far away from our cackling, and Sonny was off playing with the kids. He hasn't said anything, but I think he knows. Sometimes, just for a second, I see him gazing wistfully across his desk at Amanda, then over at my office. Poor guy.) It got a little uncomfortable when Daph realized she couldn't tell the full story without mentioning Meredith, so she broke the ice by putting us on the spot. "You two rented a U-Haul yet?"_

_I may be fairly new to same-sex relationships, but I've spent my entire adult life surrounded primarily by male colleagues. I know the lesbian jokes. Hell, I know all the jokes._

_Amanda's eyes were about to pop out of her head, so I put my arm—the left! I can do that, now!—around her shoulders and said, "Not yet. We still have to pick out a cat first, right, babe?" The kids came over then, wanting to know what was so funny (A's laugh was exceptionally loud, I noticed), and we had to compose ourselves. But later, while Amanda and I were getting ready for bed, she apologized for Daphne's less than tactful inquiry. I said no worries, didn't embarrass me. And then, as I was shaking out my hair in front of the mirror, she came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist. It took a while for me not to tense up whenever she did that, but now it hardly bothers me at all._

" _Have you given it any thought, though?" she asked, her chin propped on my shoulder. My shoes were off, but she hadn't kicked hers into the corner yet—a habit of which I'm determined to break her—so we were approximately the same height._

" _Given any thought to what, my love?" I knew perfectly well what, but I wanted to see where she was going with this before I confirmed anything._

" _Well . . ." Her drawl gets even cuter when she's nervous, I swear. "Moving in together. Not right this minute obviously, but eventually, maybe? I mean, I'm over here all the time anyway. My neighbor's probably think I'm deb—"_

_Pretty sure she was going for "dead," not "deb," but my lips got in the way when I turned around and kissed her open mouth. She recovered quickly—and emphatically— from her surprise. My detective is always ready and raring to go. I finally had to pry us apart to respond:_

— " _Six months."_

— " _Six months?"_

— " _Half a year. We give it at least that long, and if we haven't killed each other by then, you can move in with me."_

_She had already backed me over to the bed by that time, guiding me to sit on the edge. I could practically see her calculating the dates in her head, as her shoes thumped against the wall and she fiddled with the buttons on my blouse._

" _So, around mid-September? I can live with that." The blouse billowed up like a parachute when she tossed it aside. Next went my jeans, which she shimmied off my hips with the expertise of a woman who has zipped herself into plenty of tight denim. "Wait, you mean six months from our first date, not from today, right?"_

_She looked at me with such utter chagrin, I had to laugh. "Yeah, the first one," I said, as I helped her shuck off her t-shirt and shorts. (We've been jogging together lately, and good God, does it show. I don't even try to keep up with those legs. Besides, it's much more enjoyable to lag behind, and watch.)_

" _Okay, good." She kissed me hard on the lips, then dropped to her knees between mine. "And just for the record, we're getting a bigger apartment. Me_ and  _you, together."_

_When her mouth suddenly stopped talking, I wasn't inclined to disagree._

 

* * *

_July 15, 2020_

_Gaia, AKA Gigi, AKA Her Royal Highness of House Benson, is officially a service dog! We're all very proud, and she got spoiled rotten today, I'm afraid. Lots of cuddles, lots of table scraps—Amanda and I pretended not to notice, until Jesse tried to feed her an entire chicken leg—and so many selfies the poor girl is probably still seeing spots. She's lying at the end of the bed right now, her head resting on my feet, bum resting on Amanda's feet ("How come I always get the ass end?" A whined a little bit ago, then fell asleep anyway). Tired, but ready for night watch duty._

_Ironically, I haven't had a night terror since the one in mid-June. Knock wood. I can't say that I'd be disappointed if Gigi didn't get to practice her new skills for a while—or ever. But I'm sure it will happen at some point. At least the latest terrors haven't been quite as strong. More like regular bad dreams than whatever glimpse of hell I experienced at the lodge. I still jerk awake sometimes and reach for Amanda, but once her arms are around me, I can usually fall back asleep right away. I've never needed someone like that before. Even as a child, I knew I couldn't rely on my mother for comfort, so I rarely tried. It's frightening, letting myself be that vulnerable now. It's frightening—and yet, it's all I seem to want. Because it's her._

_We're hitting the firing range again tomorrow. I want to make sure my arm is in fighting shape before the captain's exam. I've almost got full range of motion back, but it's a little wobbly when I have to hold it up for too long. Luckily, it's not my dominant hand, and I can still give Amanda a run for her money at target practice. She pouted for a good fifteen minutes last time, just because I got one more headshot than she did. I told her I'd give her a private lesson in finger placement, trigger tension, and maximum point of release, when we got home. She laughed and said I've been spending too much time with Daphne, but she practically dragged me to the car after that. Turns out, the frontal lobe isn't the only spot I'm good at locating._

_She and Noah have a baseball date this weekend. I've created a couple of monsters, but at least they're bestie monsters. Now, on the rare occasions A is not around, Noah asks when his Roly (pronounced like Raleigh; it's their new in-joke, to which I am not privy) will be back. The other day, Jesse accidentally called me "Mama" when I was giving her and Tilly a bath. Sometimes I worry the kids are getting too attached; when I said so to Amanda, she asked, "Why? You planning on goin' somewhere?"_

" _No," I said, without a moment's hesitation. "No, I'm not."_

" _Me neither." She pulled me in for a light, tickling kiss on the lips. "So, quit yer bellyachin', city girl."_

 

* * *

_August 6, 2020_

_Today, Amanda informed me it's been a full month since I had a migraine. I didn't even realize she was keeping track. We decided it was cause for celebration, so we had a little wine with dinner. I've been gradually reincorporating it with meals—so far, so good. But I'm sticking to one glass these days. Amanda called me a lightweight; she had two glasses, and probably would've done a third if we didn't have work tomorrow. I called her a lush, and she said, "Damn straight. Short for luscious." (Me: "Nah, just plain short." We're nerds, I'm aware of this.)_

_Apartment hunting this weekend. It's ahead of the six month mark, but A kept pestering until I agreed that it would be better to have everything moved in by mid-September, rather than wait till then to start looking. The capt. exam falls around the same time, and I'd prefer not to be in the midst of relocating when that happens. Plus, if I had to hear A ask "How much longer?" one more time . . ._

_Shoulder's pretty much back to normal. I'm not going to be using it to break down any doors ever again, but I was getting a little old for that anyway. I'll leave that up to Wreck-It Rollins from now on._

_Dodds was v. understanding about the antidepressants. Said he himself needed a little help getting by, after Mike's death. That was tough to hear, but I know he didn't mean it as anything more than a father missing his son. He apologized for it anyway, and for oversharing. I told him no one would hear about it from me, and he said, "I didn't expect they would, Lieutenant." He really is a decent man._

_Amanda is still feeling that wine. She keeps poking me in the ribs and telling me to hurry up and finish writing so we can_

_August 7, 2020_

_Cont'd from last night, although not for the reason you think. (That happened later.) The power went out right in the middle of my sentence. Thought it was just in our building, but we got up to check and there were no lights—anywhere. I've been through my share of blackouts, but it's always unsettling to see the city go dark. And I couldn't help thinking about the last time the power went out unexpectedly, right after we found Meredith . . ._

_Even in the darkness, Amanda knew. She stayed close and kept hold of my hand. (I have a sneaking suspicion that some of it was for her own benefit, as well.) After an hour or so, we still couldn't sleep and the dogs were restless b/c they knew something was out of the ordinary. Gigi was especially upset and started pawing at the bedroom door, until we let her out. I'm sure she was remembering, too. She did the same at the front door, so Amanda walked her downstairs to show her everything was okay. When they got back, A wanted me to go up to the roof with her. "Just trust me, darlin'," she said, when I kept asking why.  
_

_Against my better judgment (she has a way of making me do that), I went. We put the dogs in charge of the kids—A swore we'd only be gone a minute—and locked everyone safely in. I still wasn't keen on leaving them or the apartment at 10 o'clock at night, with just our puny cell phones to light the way. But once we got to the roof, I was glad she talked me into it. Miles and miles of stars, far as the eye could see. Not quite as clear as the ones in the Catskills, but even more beautiful because I was standing under them with her arms wrapped around me. Scorpius twinkled brightly above us, her little red heart beating strong and true, stinger coiled in wait. Orion and his bow were nowhere in sight._

**_. . ._ **


	12. In Flagrante Delicto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, at the final chapter. I don't even really know what to say, other than it's been a helluva ride and I can't thank you guys enough for reading my story, commenting, geeking out with me on Twitter, and just being generally awesome. I wish I had twelve more chapters to post. Maybe in a few more months . . . :) I'm gonna be posting an _Idle Hands_ playlist and mood board thingy on my Tumblr (link in bio), so you can check those out too, if you're so inclined. I think that's it? Oh, and I decided this story should go out with a bang (pun intended). I hope you approve. :D Thanks again, y'all. Enjoy!!

* * *

Symmetry here,  
one leg  
on each side  
of me.  
Kneeling, I  
like a stone,  
parting  
the water  
of you.

\- Tyler Knott Gregson

**. . .**

From the notebook of Det. Amanda Rollins:

[ ](https://imgur.com/p12ttmi)

 

* * *

**CHAPTER 12:**  In Flagrante Delicto

**. . .**

The key slid into the lock with the ease of a warm knife through butter, and Amanda turned the bolt aside to produce an equally satisfying click. One day, she supposed that action would become so commonplace she'd fail to notice it anymore. But not today. Today, she was coming home to their apartment—the one she shared with the woman she loved—and that deserved a moment of deep gratitude and reflection. If it meant grinning like an idiot over the sound of a door unlocking, then so be it.

She placed her keys in a colorful, misshapen clay dish which Jesse had brought home from kindergarten days ago, proudly displaying the ashtray she'd made for her Aunt Livia. Though straight-faced, Olivia hadn't been able to hide the mirth in her warm brown eyes as she suggested switching out the ashtray for the key holder in the front hall.

"Just in case I decide not to start smoking anytime soon," she explained solemnly.

"Okay, but if you do smoke, 'member to use this," Jesse said, plopping the lumpy, oversized bowl into Olivia's hands.

Now, it was situated on the credenza, as tastefully as such a gaudy object could be among the lovely decor Olivia had chosen, with her meticulous eye for detail. It contained two other sets of keys—a small collection on a carabiner, which also held an NYPD keychain and a pink butterfly teether; and a trio of chunky, plastic keys on a ring, deposited there in case Matilda decided to take her Little Tikes princess car for a spin. An odd assortment, especially topped off by Amanda's tiny six-shooter. Smiling at the memory of receiving the cleverly disguised lighter, she toed out of her running shoes and lined them up against the wall, beside a size above but otherwise identical pair of women's Nikes and several smaller shoes in Crayola bright shades. She was still getting used to her tidy new existence—or whatever passed for tidy, with three kids, two dogs, and one slovenly blonde cop living under the same roof—but if it made Olivia happy, she was willing to adapt.

And Olivia  _was_  happy. ( _Is_ , Amanda corrected herself.) The promotion had definitely been a confidence booster. They didn't just hand over a captain's badge to any average Jane off the street. It was no big surprise when she passed the exam with flying colors, nor when Dodds showed up at the precinct to congratulate her for being selected from the list of hopefuls waiting to move up the ranks. No big surprise to anyone but the former lieutenant, that is. She had spent the rest of the day looking a bit dazed, and the remainder of the week fretting over what the change in status meant for her time with the Special Victims Unit.

Amanda had it on good authority that no one—least of all Olivia—would be getting transferred: unbeknownst to her then-lieutenant, she'd approached the chief about their relationship as well, offering to switch to another department so Olivia didn't face any blowback. Dodds shut her down almost immediately, stating that SVU needed skilled detectives and strong leadership, and there would be no shake-ups to the squad, now or in the near future. When Olivia asked what made Amanda so sure neither of them were getting relocated, she would only say, "A little birdie told me."

Not exactly the explanation Olivia wanted, but she had finally accepted it and focused her energy on preparing for the promotion ceremony yesterday morning. She looked damn good in uniform. This time, Amanda had stayed for the entire event, her heart full of pride and her iPhone storage severely diminished by all the pictures she'd taken. By the end, Olivia was rolling her eyes in every shot—but still smiling. Her first official day as captain of SVU now behind her, she had the weekend to rest and rejuvenate before the next chapter of her life truly began, on Monday. There was no doubt in Amanda's mind that Olivia would excel in her new role, just like she did at everything else.

Except maybe the arts. Poor woman couldn't draw a straight line to save her life (of the coloring book pages stuck to the fridge with ABC magnets, hers ranked only slightly above Matilda's scribbles), didn't have an ounce of rhythm anywhere in that lovely statuesque body (though she tried, bless her heart), and couldn't carry a tune in a bucket (when she did try that, Amanda quickly stopped her with a flat: "Honey. No."). Luckily, her talents lay elsewhere—and they were many.

So many.

"Where's Liv, huh?" Amanda asked in an enthusiastic tone, as Frannie trotted into the empty living room to greet her, tail wagging and toes tapping on the hardwood floor. Another sound she loved. "Where's our girl, Frannie Bananie? Where is she?"

Egged on by Amanda, the dog romped playfully to and fro, slapping random furniture with her tail and coming dangerously close to knocking over a decorative vase on the coffee table. Unlike Gigi, who had a golden retriever's natural grace and dignity, Frannie Mae was a bit of an unwieldy beast. Amanda had laughed when it occurred to her how closely the dogs' personalities matched their owners'; Olivia didn't shed nearly as much as Gigi, though. That vase, however, had already been secretly broken and glued back together by none other than Amanda herself.

"Nope. Must be in the bedroom," she said, when a glance into the kitchen showed no signs of recent activity. She wasn't surprised. After the previous day's excitement and the previous week's stress, Olivia had slept late and spent most of the morning yawning, lazing around in her pajamas, and pining for a nap. It worked nicely in Amanda's favor, giving her an excuse to shuttle the kids off on her own, without raising any suspicions. She felt a little guilty for being so eager to get them out of the apartment—but not much. They were thrilled to get a sleepover at Lucy's brownstone, and Amanda was thrilled to finally have a night alone with her brand spanking new captain. Assuming the captain ever decided to wake up.

Heading down the hallway with Frannie at her heels, she passed a room adorned in so many variations of pink, it looked like the inside of Barbie's dream house—the girls' bedroom. It even smelled pink. She paused to close the door, averting her eyes from the army of dolls that stood around the toy chest in ominous formation. Across the hall, the door was already closed, a construction paper sign taped at eight-year-old height, decreeing "No Girls Alowd" in Noah's steepled handwriting. Underneath, in smaller letters that slanted sideways down the page, he'd parenthesized "(eksept Mommy and Roly and dogs)." Most days, it was a loosely enforced rule for Jesse and Matilda as well, but the children did have their share of squabbles. Usually instigated by Jesse, every inch her mother's daughter.

Just beyond that, the master bedroom waited, door cracked open a sliver. And sure enough, when Amanda eased it aside and peeked in, she discovered Olivia curled up on top of the bedcovers. She made a pretty picture, resting peacefully against the pillows, still clad in those super soft pajamas she liked to wear. Amanda didn't know what they were made of, but she loved the feel, too—especially with Olivia inside of them. Her dark hair was artfully tousled around her shoulders, almost as if it had been posed. Even in sleep, she still guarded her left side, the arm draped across her stomach, all weight settled on the right. Lips delicately parted, she took shallow breaths that could barely be detected in the subtle rise and fall of her chest.

Amanda didn't have the heart to wake her. Despite how casual and cozy the scene might appear, it had taken Olivia months of hard work, tears, therapy, and sleepless nights, to reach a point where she could nap in the middle of the day without fearing the consequences. She needed to be held sometimes at night—a service Amanda readily provided—and Gigi was never far from her side, but she didn't wake up screaming or sobbing anymore. In fact, there were times she slept better than Amanda, who often got shoved into the farthest corner of the bed by a hundred pounds of pit bull and golden retriever vying for the closest spot to Olivia's warm, welcoming presence.

At the moment, the golden was fitted snugly into the question mark curve of her master's long legs, face resting on Olivia's crossed ankles. The dog perked up her head when Frannie barged into the room, went straight for the bed, and sniffed the loosely curled fingers of Olivia's upturned palm.

"Fran," Amanda scolded in a harsh whisper, snapping her fingers quietly at the curious pit and waving for her to back off.

Too late. Olivia breathed a deep sigh, scrubbed the dog-inspected hand across her face, and eventually peeled one eye open. She gave Frannie a lazy smile and a scratch on the head. "You watching me sleep again, you little creep? I'm beginning to wonder about you."

At first, the question seemed to be addressed to the dog, but Olivia glanced up expectantly at the doorway when no response came. Busted.

"Sorry." Amanda flashed a sheepish grin and sidled over to the bed, nudging Frannie aside to sit down on the edge and stroke a hand along the sinuous, inviting length of Olivia's hip. For so long, she'd wanted permission to touch all the delightful contours and sensual lines of the figure lounging in front of her, and now that she had it, she couldn't get enough. "I was trying not to disturb you, but the mutt had other ideas. I can take her out if you want to rest some more."

"Huh-uh." Executing a long, luxurious stretch, Olivia caught the front of Amanda's spandex workout top and tugged her down for a kiss. Just as their lips were about to meet, she rolled over and took Amanda with her, switching their positions and giving herself the upper hand. "I'm all rested up. I won't be able to sleep tonight if I keep going."

A small, satisfied smirk teased at Amanda's lips. The gods—and her captain—were smiling down on her today, it seemed. She tucked a lock of coffee-brown hair behind Olivia's ear, and said, "I can think of some ways to wear you out . . ."

"Oh, I'm sure you can," Olivia murmured, drawing nearer with each breath, until her mouth was close enough for capture. But again, she interrupted the kiss at the very last second, leaving Amanda to tremble in anticipation. "Wait a minute . . ."

Olivia leaned in and took a whiff of Amanda's shirt, then continued sniffing her way up to the collar and the neck beyond it. Frannie herself couldn't have done a more thorough job. "You smell good."

It sounded more like an accusation than a compliment, and Amanda instantly realized her mistake. If you claim to be taking the kids to the park to play while you run the perimeter, you should probably work up a sweat before returning home. Oh well, at least she didn't need to shower in advance now, assuming Olivia ever decided to stop sniffing and start kissing. At some point, the captain was bound to notice the kids were missing, anyway.

As if on cue, Olivia cocked her head towards the open bedroom door, listening intently for a moment. "It's quiet out there," she whispered, then turned back to Amanda with wide, astonished eyes. "What have you done with our children?"

Her expression and dramatic delivery would have made Amanda laugh, were she not so distracted by the word choice. Not  _my_  or  _your_ , but  _our_  children. She couldn't tell if it was intentional or a slip of the tongue; and they both did have a child or two among the group in question, making "our" the most succinct way of putting it. Maybe Olivia was just being grammatical.

Whatever the reason, Amanda felt almost giddy with happiness at the sound of it: their children. Their dogs, their apartment. And the bravest, toughest, sexiest woman she'd ever known, unapologetically snuggled up against her. She didn't need to gamble anymore—she'd already hit the jackpot.

"I dropped them off at Lucy's for the night," she confessed, offering up her most charming and irresistible grin, the one she knew the captain had a hard time saying no to. She couldn't let Olivia have all the power in the relationship. The majority of it, yes. But not all.

"Thought you 'n me could use some time alone in our new apartment to properly celebrate your new job." She glided her hand down Olivia's thigh, hooking it behind the knee, and pulling it around her. "And my hot new boss."

Olivia looked down at her leg, and back up at Amanda, eyebrow arched. "So, basically you dumped our kids at the nanny's on her weekend off and came running straight back here for loud, middle-of-the-day sex."

"Well, not exactly. I didn't run." Amanda plucked at her dry top, letting the tight, stretchy material snap against her side. She sought out the much more appealing fabric of Olivia's pajamas—what the hell was it? Terry? Microfleece? Kittens?—and slipped her hand up the back of the ultrasoft shirt. The skin underneath was even better. "Otherwise I'd be sweaty and gross. Thought you'd prefer me clean and smellin' like a rose."

Olivia snorted, but her teeth sank into her bottom lip as Amanda's fingers trailed lightly along her spine. She couldn't conceal the shiver that followed in their wake, or the goosebumps that cropped up on her previously smooth skin. "You're awfully confident. Suppose I wasn't in the mood," she said, the rasp in her voice no longer a result of deep slumber. "What then, Detective?"

It was a situation Amanda had encountered before. No matter how well the captain's recovery had been going in recent months, there were moments when she had very little interest in sex. Some of it was normal—"I'm fifty-two, not twenty-two," she'd explain, in that wry tone of hers, "and so is my vagina"—but other times, she closed herself off, emotionally and physically, and refused to talk about it. Those were the times when Amanda knew not to push, to just be there in whatever way she could, until Olivia was ready. Early on she'd learned which triggers to avoid—hair-pulling and pinned wrists were out of the question, and one or two positions would never be comfortable for either of them—and she remained vigilant still, prepared to stop whenever Olivia gave the word.

So far, Amanda didn't hear it.

"Guess I'd have to work at getting you there," she said, and skimmed her fingernails down Olivia's back, grinning wickedly as it arched in response. She dipped her fingers into the waistband a little farther on, toying at the silky panty line that rested low on the hip. "Legend has it, I'm pretty good at figuring out what makes you—"

After a sufficient pause and a small, possessive squeeze at Olivia's ass, she finished: "—tick."

"Big talk for such a little punk." Olivia bit into the playful insult, enunciating each consonant as she moved in with the same predatory posture she used while sweating the bad guys—dominant, sly, and dangerously close. Whatever presence she lacked on the dance floor, she more than made up for in the box and the bedroom.

The captain's voice purred into Amanda's ear, the hard  _p_  and  _k_  sounds sending pleasant little jolts directly to her lower abdomen. A soft moan escaped her lips, only to be cut short by Olivia's mouth. She moaned into the kiss instead, warmly reciprocating the long-awaited contact. Making out with Olivia had become her favorite pastime, and one they indulged in regularly. Never at work—Captain Benson was much too strait-laced for that—but just about anywhere else the opportunity arose. Sometimes that was all they did for hours, no expectations beyond holding each other, and the deep, slow, open-mouthed kisses that left Amanda feeling intoxicated, her lips pink and swollen. Among other parts.

While she loved those moments of pure, luxurious intimacy, she also quite enjoyed the not so pure kind. When she felt the turquoise yoga pants being peeled off her hips, she eagerly helped slide them down her legs, kicking free of the constrictive fabric that clung to her ankles. She broke from the kiss long enough to tug her equally snug top up and over her head, blonde hair whipping free of the collar and fluttering around her shoulders. She threw the shirt at the dogs, who were watching the scene unfold, as if they had happened upon a racy episode of cable television.

"Living room. Out," she said, pointing at the doorway. After exchanging a peevish look, both dogs turned and reluctantly padded from the room, heads bowed. She'd give them a treat later on to make up for the sharp dismissal.

And speaking of treats. Chuckling at the canine antics, Olivia leaned in to dot a row of soft, sweet kisses to Amanda's collarbone. Her wetted lips left behind a necklace of moisture on the delicate skin. She warmed it with her breath, then warmed Amanda entirely with a nip at the curve of her neck. Amanda drew a hissing breath through her teeth at the slight sting, but tipped her head to one side, inviting more. Between the tickling, L'Oréal-scented strands of Olivia's hair, freshly shampooed the night before, and the provocative sound of her mouth as it worked its way higher, Amanda felt an exquisite pressure building up inside her.

"Sorry," Olivia murmured against her throat, not sounding the least bit remorseful, truth be told.

"Do it again," Amanda instructed, cupping a hand to the back of the woman's head, careful not to press down. She sank her fingers into the thick, dark mane, massaging gently at the scalp beneath. She was pretty sure she could have an orgasm by simply touching that head of lush, sweet-smelling hair alone. But where was the fun in that?

"I'm not gonna start my first week as captain with everyone buzzing about my girlfriend's hickey." Taking Amanda's chin lightly in hand, Olivia turned it just enough to nibble at the spot between jaw and earlobe. She knew damn well that drove Amanda crazy, especially when she did that other thing right after—the thing with her tongue . . .

Yeah, just like that . . .

"I'll wear a turtleneck," Amanda said breathlessly, her hands beginning to roam. All semblance of power had slipped from her grasp the moment Olivia's teeth came into play; she needed something else to hold onto. Skin. She wanted bare, olive-toned skin, softer than any twenty-two-year-old's, and far better endowed.

Olivia laughed outright and leaned back to look at her. "In September? It was seventy yesterday."

"If that's what it takes." Amanda gave a stubborn nod, but her eyes had already strayed to the cute gray and white striped pajamas that had yet to be discarded. She looked down at herself, seated on the comforter in  _her_  cutest little matching bra and panties, deliberately chosen that morning for this very occasion. Hardly seemed like a fair trade, she thought, quirking an eyebrow at the captain.

"Got something on your mind, Detective?" Olivia asked, smile gradually fading as her own gaze traveled over Amanda's body, eyes warming to a deep, sultry brown. Her cheeks puffed out a little as she exhaled through slightly pursed lips. She looked like she'd just been offered an absurdly large sum of cash. She looked  _hungry_.

"Same thing that's on yours, Captain." Amanda got to her knees and straddled Olivia's lap, her fingers inching at the hem of the pajama top. When there was no objection, she lifted the shirt and tossed it aside without a second look. She only had eyes for the beauty in front of her.

Olivia's summer tan still lingered, turning the skin not covered by her bathing suit an enviable shade of bronze (Amanda's pasty white ass only ever burned). She hadn't bothered with a bra—lazy Saturday indeed—and her full breasts were noticeably paler, though just as lovely. On occasion, she could be found in front of the mirror, studying her cleavage and giving her chest a boost with both hands, but Amanda didn't see any of the so-called sagging she fretted over. In fact, compared to the toll childbirth and breastfeeding had taken on Amanda's chest, Olivia's was downright perky. She complained often about the increase of freckles and beauty marks ("Moles, dear, they're just called moles," she always corrected) with age, but Amanda thought those were sexy too. She could devote an entire afternoon to tracing a fingertip from one little brown dot to another, creating constellations on an already heavenly body.

"You're so fucking gorgeous," she said in a fierce and husky tone, practically daring Olivia to disagree with the assessment.

The captain did tilt her head a bit modestly, or so it appeared, until she ducked down to kiss the flesh that swelled from Amanda's bra cups. She hooked the straps off both shoulders with her finger, then undid the clasp in back, and slid the bra down Amanda's arms and out of sight. With a deep, appreciative sigh, she palmed one breast and brought it to her lips. As they closed around the tip, she manipulated the other with her free hand.

Manipulated—that was a good word for it, Amanda thought. Or at least she would have if she'd been able to concentrate on anything besides the soft sucking noises and her taut, aching nipples. This was not at all how she had expected things to go. She should be the one coaxing those moans and hums of pleasure from Olivia, not vice versa . . . but far be it from her to interrupt the captain at work.

And like always, Olivia worked with diligence and determination. Just when Amanda didn't think she could handle anymore—she was as pink as the bedroom next door—a hand glided up the back of her neck and pulled her in for a heated kiss. Seizing the opportunity to take back the reins, she sucked warmly at Olivia's tongue and stroked the breasts she had so admired moments ago. They were a pleasant weight in her greedy hands, and she smiled into the kiss, feeling her touch met with full approval.

"Mmm," said Olivia.

"Mm-hmm," replied Amanda.

They continued the conversation for several more moments, Amanda kneading above, while Olivia's hands traveled down to her ass, kneading below. It became a much more one-sided discussion when Olivia reached around to rub her palm against the crotch of Amanda's lacy black panties.

Amanda broke from the kiss with a loud, wet smack, and growled, "Fuck," before crushing their lips together once more. Olivia being such a generous soul, she quickly obliged, slipping her hand inside the skimpy underwear. She made a decadent sound, as if she'd just taken a bite of rich chocolate and discovered the sweet, creamy center. Amanda responded in kind, nodding eagerly when Olivia mumbled something along the lines of, "Smoh mwet," into the kiss and then let her fingers do the rest of the talking. Her long, nimble fingers.

She had laughed at Amanda for getting turned on while watching her disassemble and clean her gun—she'd been extra thorough with the bore brush, tauntingly sliding it in and out of the barrel until Amanda kicked over a wastebasket and stormed off—but whether handling steel or a much more sensitive trigger, those fingers were extremely proficient.

"More," Amanda gasped, losing all track of what her own hands were doing. She gave up and wrapped both arms around Olivia's neck, finding an ear to whimper into as she rocked her hips, slowly at first, then increasingly faster. Intent on her pursuits, she barely heard Olivia speaking; it was the rumble in her chest, flush with the captain's, that grabbed her attention.

"—taste you." Olivia demonstrated with a small but insistent nip at Amanda's shoulder, quickly soothing the mark with her lips and tongue. When she shook the hair out of her face and looked up for consent, her eyes were filled with such naked desire, Amanda almost came right then. Luckily, she had a little more self-control than that.

Not a lot, but a little.

"You sure?" she panted, hoping like hell the answer was yes. It had taken Olivia a while to get comfortable enough to go down on her—the captain had never admitted it, at least not in so many words, but her past traumas spoke volumes about that initial reticence, no matter how brief—and Amanda didn't want to jeopardize the other woman's recovery with her own selfish appetites. (But Lord Jesus, it felt so good.)

"Positive." Without a moment's hesitation, Olivia shifted Amanda out of her lap, tugged her to the edge of the bed, and knelt on the floor in front of her. She shucked the panties away in one swift go and guided Amanda's thighs apart with something like reverence, taking a second to appreciate them, her palms gliding up and down the fair, toned flesh. She leaned in to kiss it, alternating sides as she moved higher . . .

And higher . . . and higher . . .

 _You're killing me, Smalls_ , Amanda thought to herself. Out loud, she simply groaned—and then all conscious thought was gone, as Olivia reached her destination. Everything was gone but those lips, that tongue, and the fingers parting her, unfolding her like a flower that opens to the sun. It was almost too much—the sight of Olivia between her legs, licking her with long, fervent strokes, brown eyes occasionally flickering upwards to peer through thick, dark lashes. Amanda felt the flutter of those lashes in every single nerve ending she possessed.

She only lasted a few minutes more. As the first wave of pleasure crashed over her, she cried out and held tight to the hands that massaged at her inner thighs. A second orgasm, less intense but just as satisfying, followed soon after—and then she began to wilt. "Hey, you," she said thickly, and ruffled Olivia's hair. "I give."

The captain gazed up with the same look Amanda often saw directed at her over a pair of reading glasses, a look that clearly stated "I'm a little busy right now, come again later." But it would have to be much later, because Amanda was spent. Even though her mouth did water as Olivia eased back and licked her glistening lips . . .

But no. She could wait. Besides, now it was a certain tall, shirtless, insanely beautiful brunette's turn.

"Jesus," Olivia said, swiping both hands across her wet chin. She cupped Amanda's knees for support as she stood, leaving behind a ring of damp fingerprints on either side. "I'm drenched."

"Mm, we're off to a good start, then." Amanda caught her by the waist and pulled her in, until they were skin to skin. It was the perfect vantage point—Olivia's breasts were tantalizingly close, heavy as ripe fruit—and Amanda reached up to brush her thumb across one rosy brown nipple before drawing it into her mouth for a delicate suck that grew steadily warmer. There was a soft gasp, a hitch in the belly pressed against her, and then strong arms were around her, fingernails clawing lightly up her back, asking for more. She gave it without reservation, gave it so well and so relentlessly that she felt Olivia going a little weak in the knees.

"M'kay, baby?" she asked around a mouthful, casting a sidelong glance upwards. Thanks to a couple of evil bastards whose names Amanda refused to acknowledge during such an intimate moment, it had also taken Olivia a while to accept any sort of attention being lavished on her breasts. She could be especially self-conscious about the cigarette burn, although it was hardly noticeable, at least to Amanda. Just another piece of the complex and addictive puzzle known as Olivia Margaret Benson.

"Mm-hmm." Olivia inclined her head, long hair spilling into her eyes at that angle. The ends swept Amanda's cheek, tickling like a feather. "Feels really good," Olivia said, and combed the strands back with her fingers, a dreamy smile playing at her lips.

Fuck, she was pretty.

Her smile widened, like she had overheard the private observation, and she lifted Amanda's face in her hands, leaning down for a lengthy kiss on the mouth. She tasted carnal and a little bit dangerous, as if she were both the poison and the antidote. Amanda drank deep, not caring which she ended up with—either way was bliss.

"Take 'em off," Olivia ordered, when Amanda fiddled with the waistband of her pajama bottoms.

"Are you—"

"Yes." Olivia silenced the question with another kiss, much hungrier than the one before it. She grabbed Amanda's hands firmly, but not roughly—never roughly—and directed them to her backside. She sighed, long and hard, when the hands squeezed, jerking her slightly forward and crushing her pelvis into Amanda.

After a moment of needy grinding—and a frustrated growl—Amanda took the hint. She slid her palms inside the plush fabric and the silkier underwear beneath, deftly guiding both down at once, caressing every dip and curve along the way. The clothing pooled at Olivia's feet, and she stepped from them thoughtlessly, then paused with an uncertain look when she noticed Amanda gazing at her in wonder.

"What?" she asked, glancing down at herself, and back up again. Her hand hovered near the serpentine scar on her hip, but she made no attempt to hide it.

"I love you," Amanda said abruptly, as if the idea had just popped up out of nowhere, a Jack-in-the-box confession. She'd actually been planning to say it for weeks, biding her time until she found the right segue, the right venue. This probably wasn't it. And she'd definitely intended it to sound more romantic than if she had suddenly remembered what kind of takeout she craved for dinner. But it was out now, and there was no going back.

She didn't want to, anyway.

"You just love seeing me naked." Though Olivia smirked lightly, the inflection in her voice went up at the end. Questioning. She grazed her thumb along Amanda's lower lip, studying the features above it, jaw cradled gently in her hand.

"No. Well, yes, that too." Amanda reached up to curl her fingers around Olivia's. She turned her head to kiss the nearby caterpillar scar. "But I do. Love you."

She was the one feeling vulnerable this time, sitting there gazing up at the woman whom she so admired, so trusted. And so needed. She held her breath, afraid that the silence meant Olivia wasn't going to respond—or worse, felt like she had to. But after a torturous pause, the captain tucked Amanda's bangs behind her ear, laughed when they fell back into place, and through the happy sounds, said, "I love you more."

Grinning, Amanda shook her head. Leave it to Olivia to pose a declaration of love as a challenge. It was kind of perfect. "Nuh-uh. Not possible."

"You gonna make me pull rank in bed?" A fist planted on both hips, Olivia squared her shoulders and looked down from her full height. Amanda couldn't decide if it was more or less intimidating without the clothes. This way certainly got her heart—and libido—pounding. Maybe she wouldn't have to wait till later, after all.

"Please do."

Olivia rolled her eyes, but she gave Amanda's shoulder a playful push, urging her to lie down. "I should write you up for insubordination," she said, as Amanda eagerly scooted backwards and propped up on her elbows.

The captain crawled on top of her, lingering above on all fours, lightly muscled calves snug at her sides. Amanda reached down to stroke them, and found she couldn't stop there. Her hands roamed every inch of the long, tanned legs—into the bend of a knee, up the back of a thigh, over the curves above that. "Maybe you should just take me straight to interrogation," she suggested, and bringing her own knee up, grazed her thigh between Olivia's legs. That comment about being drenched had not been an exaggeration, as it so happened. She licked her lips. "Grill me for a while."

"I'd have you singing like a canary in no time." Olivia's only reaction to the sneaky move was a quick intake of breath, but the husk in her voice belied her cool exterior. When Amanda did it again, slower and more firmly, Olivia closed her eyes, folded her lips in a tight line, and moaned.

"That right?" Amanda asked, unable to conceal her amusement. Or her smugness.

"Hm?"

Either the captain was pretending not to hear, or she was too distracted by rubbing herself against Amanda's thigh to pay attention. Judging by the lip-biting and the hazy expression, Amanda's money was on the latter option.

"I said I know somethin' better to do with my mouth than sing," she murmured in Olivia's ear, then teased the lobe with her tongue. "Lie back for me, darlin'."

Innuendos and power plays forgotten, Olivia followed the request, situating herself near the headboard, a small mound of pillows at her back. For a moment, Amanda could only stare at the expertly posed frame in front of her. It exuded confidence, a hard-won achievement in itself, considering the trauma it had gone through. But there was no discomfort or shame to be seen, only an easy assuredness that was sexy as hell. She settled between Olivia's legs, aware that her admiration had crossed over to the worshipful—and not giving a good goddamn. She'd gladly worship this woman for hours on end, if that's what it took.

 _Amen and amen_ , she thought, then leaned in for a taste. It was heady and warm, like that first sip of an expensive red wine, and just like when she had a full glass, she couldn't stop at one. She took a long pull, and another, and another, until she was drunk with it; until Olivia's little ooh's and ahh's became instructive ("Right—oh God, there") and expletive ("Fffshhhi—fuck!"); and until her senses were so filled up with the woman whose legs were wrapped around her, she could barely remember her own name.

Rollins something or other?

Making Olivia come could be a bit tricky. It didn't take much to turn her on, but the release, the complete letting go, was sometimes beyond even Amanda's capable grasp. When it did happen, it was usually big and intense and well worth the effort. Logically, Amanda knew she wasn't the first or only person to get the captain to relinquish that control—although, Olivia had confided that she'd faked it sometimes with Cassidy and complained of headaches (not always falsely) quite often with Tucker—but whenever she felt Olivia writhing beneath her and saw the look of abandon in those lovely brown eyes, an odd sense of accomplishment soon followed. She had what it took to make her captain feel good. Really damn good. And she was determined to do it as often and as well as possible.

"'Manda, I'm—" Olivia said, seconds before her whole body tensed, hips rocking towards swirling tongue and thrusting fingers. Her orgasms weren't particularly vocal—not like Amanda's—but this one contracted every muscle, from throat to thighs, and she didn't try to fight it, didn't try to silence a single moan or breathy cry.

Humming encouragement, Amanda continued the erratic pattern she'd established, wringing out every last ounce of pleasure she could. She only stopped when the hand tangled up in her hair—the other was white-knuckling the headboard—gave the signal. She retreated slowly, dispensing kisses and soothing strokes along the way. Her plan to snuggle up at the captain's side was deterred when Olivia pulled her into a tight embrace, their bodies dovetailing perfectly, one atop the other. Hand-in-glove, lock-and-key perfection. Amanda went boneless against Olivia, lulled by the tidelike rise and fall of her chest, the drumming of her heartbeat, and her fingers skimming idly across skin.

"Damn," Olivia said, when her breathing returned to normal. "What the hell did you just do to me?"

Amanda grinned and turned her face up for a kiss. "A good magician never reveals her secrets," she whispered, and nipped lightly at Olivia's bottom lip.

"Magician, huh?" Olivia chuckled, jiggling the bed and the blonde on top of her. "Does that mean I have to call you The Stupendous Rollins or something, now?"

"Nah. The Amazing Amanda'll do."

"Double A," Olivia said experimentally, then gave an approving nod, that cute little scrunchy smile on her lips. "Come to think of it, you do sort of remind me of the Energizer bunny."

"Oh, good Lord."

"You just keep going and going and . . ."

"Stop."

When their laughter subsided and they were both drifting in thoughtful silence, Amanda's eyelids began to droop. "I'mma fall asleep, you keep doin' that," she mumbled, as Olivia's fingers traced lazy, circular designs up and down her back. "Feels so . . ."

She was almost out when Olivia kissed the top of her head and whispered, "Sleep, my love. I've got a surprise for you when you wake."

 

* * *

 

"What is it?" Amanda asked, for the hundredth time since waking in the rumpled, love-stained sheets, with Olivia pinned helplessly—and willingly—underneath her. She had only slept for about twenty minutes, and the first words out of her mouth, before her eyes even fully opened were:

"You say somethin' about a surprise?"

Olivia practically had to carry her from bed to shower, inserting her under the stream with strict instructions to take more than a PTA bath, just to get a moment's peace from the incessant questions. She'd wolfed down a late lunch of peanut butter and jelly on a toasted bagel, half of which went to Amanda, who entered the kitchen with a mop of wet blonde hair and a hungry look in her eye. The detective was always ravenous after sex. It was either feed her or wind up flat on your back in bed again, with her head between your thighs. While the prospect was tempting, Olivia had already showered and dressed for the trip. Sex could wait. At least until later that evening.

Now, they were in the parking garage elevator, and Amanda all but danced in anticipation. She'd probably already figured out part of the surprise, although she was doing an admirable impression of Jesse—the most impatient five-year-old ever. And, like her mother, cute enough to get away with it.

"You'll see," Olivia said, keeping her eyes on the digital floor indicator overhead. She suppressed a smile when Amanda let out a dramatic groan and sulked in the corner. Seconds later, the doors opened and she looped her arm through the blonde's. "Come on, almost there."

"My surprise is your SUV?" Amanda asked, as they arrived at the vehicle parked in Olivia's usual spot. "Aww, babe, you shouldn't have."

"Not that one, smartass. The one beside it." Olivia pointed to the opposite side of the SUV, where she'd parked her Mustang after taking it to the shop for a much needed tune-up. Sneaking around behind her astute detective's back to get it done had been the hardest part of the entire operation.

Amanda peeked around the larger vehicle, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the sleeker, much more compact car. Olivia knew the feeling—she'd looked at the Mustang the same way, moments before impulse-buying it. Many times over the years, she had thought the purchase was a mistake, especially when it almost got her locked up for murder. But now, as Amanda stood gaping in awe, Olivia was glad she hadn't sold it.

"Yours?" Amanda approached the car like it was a skittish horse, her hand out for a tentative stroke. She circled the steel and chrome beast, gaining confidence with each step, trailing her fingers over the hood and door handles in much the same way they had trailed over Olivia during that little bit of afternoon delight a while ago.

Olivia wasn't sure whether she should be flattered or not. She opted for yes—it seemed to be her favorite word these days—and tossed Amanda the keys. "Ours," she said, and headed for the passenger side. "Get in, gorgeous. You're taking me to Washingtonville."

"Washingtonville?" Amanda scurried for the driver side door when Olivia flicked up an eyebrow at her hesitation. "What's in Washingtonville?" she asked, ducking in behind the steering wheel. Just as distracted by the interior as she had been by the exterior, she started feeling up the dashboard, instrument panel, stick shift, and leather upholstery.

Oh, Lord.

"Brotherhood Winery," Olivia said, shooing the blonde's hands away from the visor she was compulsively flipping up and down. "Been wanting to check it out for a while. They host wine tastings and other events. And before you wrinkle that nose, there's a wine  _and_  beer festival tonight."

"Now you're speakin' my language." Amanda glanced down at the center console and the stuffed bear that sat on it—her Valentine's gift to Olivia, before the nightmare began. Before the healing began as well. "He our mascot?"

"Who, Lin-Manuel Bear-anda?"

"I still can't believe you named it that," Amanda said, with a laugh. "I still can't believe you named it, period. You're such a closet dork."

"And yet, you love me anyway."

"Yeah." Amanda smiled fondly. "I sure do."

Olivia returned the expression, but clucked her tongue when the detective's eyes strayed wistfully back to the car. "Okay, I get the picture. You've got a whole hour with her now, and you can drive us home tomorrow, too. Sound good?"

"Oh yeah," Amanda said, rubbing her palms together with glee. She turned the key slowly in the ignition, as if she were savoring the experience, and for a moment, sat there marveling at the rumble of the engine. Then: "Wait a minute. Tomorrow? We're staying the night? How'd you know we'd be free to do all this?"

"Yes and yes. I booked us a bed and breakfast. Hate to break it to you, but you're not as sneaky as you think." Olivia patted the blonde on the knee to soften the blow. "I called Lucy ahead to make sure you left Jesse's EpiPen, Tilly's blanket, and Noah's inhaler. And Carisi's coming over to take care of the dogs. Now we just need to hit the road."

"Wow." This time, Amanda's eyes were widened in Olivia's direction, instead of at the Mustang. "Guess I'm gonna have to step up my game a little."

"Honey, all you gotta do is drive." Olivia made a sweeping gesture at the steering wheel. "You do know how to handle a stick, right?"

(She heard it in her head after she said it. Thank goodness Daphne wasn't there to comment and Amanda was too excited to notice.)

"You shittin' me? My whole life has been leading to this moment." Amanda bounced in her seat, joggling the wheel like Matilda did when she was pretend-driving her plastic car. The only thing missing was the  _vroom vroom_  noises. "I could drive this beauty with my eyes closed."

"Uh-huh. Well, don't do that. And remember . . ." Olivia tapped her detective on the shoulder, waiting for those pretty blue eyes to turn her way once again. She could spend the rest of her days looking into those eyes. And right then, she believed she would. "You scratch 'er, you pay to have her fixed."

Amanda flashed what she often referred to as a "shit-eating grin," and tipped a two-fingered salute at Olivia:

"Aye aye, Captain."

"Drive, Rollins. Just drive."

**. . .**

**THE END**


End file.
